Esto Perpetua
by Savannah O'Ryan
Summary: In 269AD her husband executed the Christian priest, Valentinius, for defying Roman law. From her place amongst the aristocracy, Gabriella Petronia Atella, wife of the Emperor, contemplated the devotion and conviction one must feel to die for that kind of faith, for that kind of love. In 270AD, with a sword at her neck, she has experienced it for herself and has her answers. TG
1. Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.

_AN: This is to be a five-shot. What started as a oneshot turned into a monster. Although you don't need to know history, I do plan to explain some things along the way to make it clear for those who did not study classics for four years as I did. All you need to know for now is that in 270AD Rome was still an empire and Christianity was still in its infancy. Persecution was rampant amongst the people and the government. Judaism was also unwelcomed, however tolerated as long as they kept to themselves. It will be another 200 years before Rome is in ruins. Enjoy it, review it, and don't throw rocks._

_~Van_

**Esto Perpetua**

_**("Let it be forever")**_

**PART I: 270AD, Kalendae Ianuariae**

The sun is at its highest, the rays heating the tiles of the square until they seared the heels of the barefooted slaves' feet. A humming comes from the market stalls set up along the outer edges of the crowd, the vendors making good business as the people rush to ensure a good site of the platform built in the center of the open space. All around, faces and bodies press against one another, only deferring to those in higher stations, as the heat rises and the officials fidget. No birds have settled on the surrounding rooftops or float in the cloudless sky. They could be seen as omens and therefore slaves were probably been ordered to make them scarce. Spotless, the forum has been swept clear of debris and cleansed by the priests in preparation for today. It's not every day Rome executes nobility.

He is beside me. The light reflecting off metal jewellery and adornments in the crowd and highlighting the russet tones in his hair that remind me of the clay on the potter's wheel and the bronze shields of the soldiers. His head is bent in custom prayer, but I feel his gaze on my feet and the hem of my dress, and I know his eyes are the same blue as the Aegean Sea. His hands are behind his back, tied with leather thongs. Mine are bound in the same fashion.

I risk a glance to see his face, to capture every detail and match them to the memories I already have. His strong jaw and perfect cheekbones. His skin tone that speaks to a foreign mother and unknown gods. My eyes soak in his image, trailing down to see the sweat glistening on his bare shoulders and exposed back. He has been beaten. Bruises cast black shadows along his shoulder blades and chest, a well laid hand has split his eyebrow and the lower corner of his mouth, but he is still beautiful to me. I settle my gaze on the ugly black mark of our demise.

The day he was branded is burned into my mind for it was the day that the tattoo artist killed my dreams with his needle and art. The pattern of olive branches entwining a torch is etched into the skin on his right shoulder, the ink slightly faded from years of bathing and wear. The letters are so tiny that they were only drawn on for symbolic purposes. No one could look upon his brand and question the owner. He is Claudius' property. So am I.

We have committed a sin, he and I, and we shall both die for it. Today, on this platform, my husband will make an example of us. He will exercise his right by law to reclaim the respect that our deeds have taken from him. He will restore his dignity. He will hold fast to his iron grip on power. The people will cheer for our blood. Priests will pray for our soul although without the grace of the Emperor, I am to believe their prayers do us no good. My lover will pray to his own God. Perhaps his deity is mightier than Juno and will grant us both respite from the pain that is my only fear.

I wish to touch him one last time, to feel his hands on my body and his lips on mine. If I had known our last time would be the end of us, I would not have changed things, but I would have savoured it more. Perhaps a more plentiful sacrifice to Venus would have bought us a night from sunset to sundown. I shall never know. My memories are all that keep me standing rigid on this platform, this stage. They keep me from flinching as I see the Emperor's _primus pilus_ grip the handle of his sword with two hands, the point aimed towards the ground.

The priests are nearing the end of their incantations, their words filling my ears like the buzzing of bees. The sun is burning the flesh on my back that is turned away from the crowd. I am suddenly aware of this. Chanting from the crowd has been carried away on the wind, nothing reaching my ears but the heavy soles of the _centurion's_ sandals and my own breathing. My nails dig into my palms, leather chafes my wrists. The plait of my hair swings forward and gives the man a clearer view. Beside me, my beautiful Greek boy is staring at me, his gaze steady and a calm washes over me.

A flash of iron and the sword sweeps through the still air.


	2. Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.

_AN: Consider this part of your history lesson. Claudius Gothicus , or Claudius II, ruled as Emperor of Rome from 268-270AD. He gained the empire through military feats and rank, spending much of his reign on the battlefield and away from Rome. Although the sources are uncomfirmed and will most likely never be proven, it is accepted widely by scholars that Claudius II was responsible for martyring Saint Valentine some time during 269 or 270AD. Legend has it that Valentine was marrying couples despite the ruling that permission had to be given by the Emperor to keep men from deserting the army. At the time, Christianity was heavily persecuted. Claudius's wife is unknown but it seems likely that he would have made a politically advantageous marriage to gain power and allies within Rome. His reputation was that of a violent, tempermental man who came from the people and not the artistocratic class. _

_~Van_

**Esto Perpetua**

_**("Let it be forever")**_

**PART II: 269AD, Ianuarius**

Claudius has returned from Greece. I hear the horses' hooves clattering on the cobblestones in the courtyard. Shouts are heard along the corridors, echoing against the cool stone of the walls. It had been expected that he would be gone throughout the winter, returning to Rome just as the fields were to be ploughed and the grain was being sown. Instead, he has arrived in time for the festival of Lupercalia. I foresee the public spectacle already and my belly clenches.

A burnished bronze mirror hangs over my small vanity table carved from cedar and imported from Cyprus. I examine my reflection, looking for an escaping coil of hair or a smudge of kohl liner. A female slave appears in the room, her eyes wide and anxious. She approaches without orders, and helps me straighten the folds of my deep red dress. Expert hands tug and pull until the golden clasps on my shoulders lay flat and my bronzed girdle fits snugly. I pull on the bracelets she hands me and untangle the links of my earrings. Claudius must find no fault with me. My position is not secure as a third wife with no children yet. I dread what his return home will mean to my freedom, to the quiet I have enjoyed.

I keep my back straight as I enter the atrium. The sun strikes my eyes and for a moment, Claudius is nothing but a black silhouette against a white hot sky. Then he is sliding from his horse, his sandals soundless on the tiles. Orders are being barked at the household slaves who have arranged themselves in sight of their master. They run to do his bidding; they are no longer mine to dismiss. I wait, sweat gathering at the small of my back, and search my husband's face for changes. There seem to be a few new lines at the corners of his eyes, and his skin is bronzed by the sun. I cannot detect anything else, but then how can I? We had only been wed a week before he gathered his men and left for Greece where he had hoped to conquer new land to the north, and a week is not long enough to memorize your husband's face; even if it is on a coin.

He has caught me watching him and a smile spreads over his face, but it is the smile of a predator that has spotted prey. I lower my head as he approaches, acting every bit the demure young wife. It is what I was wed for. That and my family name which included the dowry that was delivered with me in three separate carts. Claudius' first wife died in childbed birthing their son, Lucius. His second wife is said to have slipped in the baths, hitting her head and dying in a fit. Despite the lucky omens noted at my own wedding feast, I am aware of the dark cloud that has followed my husband's wives. I know of the gossip in the servants' quarters that says the second wife slipped on spilt olive when olive oil does not belong in the baths.

"Gabriella Petronia Atella," he declares with gallantry, "Your beautiful face is a welcome sight."

"And I am happy to have you home, Husband," I reply quietly, glad that even simple compliments can still make me blush. He thinks I am pleased. I wonder how many brothels he has visited between here and Alexandria. "I trust everything is well with you?"

"Of course, my Sweet. Rome is once again solid in her union with Egypt." He looks over his shoulder to where servants are unloading baggage from horses and his smile grows. "Come, I have brought you a gift."

I am not startled by his announcement, but by the group of dirty human beings grouped together in the center of the atrium. They are clearly slaves, but it is not usual for Claudius to deal with them himself. He usually buys from the broker in town. I raise an eyebrow to him, which he ignores while calling out to Titanius Demus, the head of the household servants and slaves. While they talk, I examine the newcomers with uncovered distaste. Two are older women, their faces carved with harsh lines and their hands hard from labour. They will most likely be assigned to the kitchen. With Claudius home we will be entertaining more. Two more remain, a young girl who is biting her tongue to keep her jaw from trembling, and a young man whose face is a storm of anger. He catches me staring and glares, causing me to turn away.

"This one," Claudius gestures and the young girl I had just noticed is yanked to stand in front of me, "Is to be your personal slave. I have decided to remove Niobe from that station so you shall have to train this one in your needs." He moves to turn away, directing Demus to take away the two women.

"Husband? What about Niobe?" I ask quietly, my voice strained. Niobe had come from my father's house with me and only she knew how I had come to be in this house. "Where shall you place her?"

"With Mother," Claudius answers, unclasping the brooch on his crimson cloak and unwinding it from his shoulders. "She has been looking for someone new in the kitchen. I have arranged for her to be taken there today."

"Today?" I choke out. He does not even look at me.

"Yes. Pullo should have done it already." I bite back my tears at his callous answer and his abrupt decision. "Take your girl and find her a bath. She stinks."

"What about the others?" I ask, shifting my glance to the young man standing behind us. He appears foreign under the grime of the road. "Shall I see to them as well?"

"No, I will take care of Lysander." I nod in agreement and begin walking towards the alae at the west of the house. Claudius does not look back, turning instead to inspect what appears to be a new saddle.

He has a name, I think, as the girl follows me into the coolness of the interior. Lysander. Definitely Greek. It is not a common name, and yet it should not interest me so much. He must have been chosen with a purpose for Claudius rarely learns the names of his slaves who work out of sight. Not even I can name all of those in the kitchens or the baths. A shiver travels my spine as I pass the marble bust of my husband, Marcus Aurelius Valerius Claudius, Emperor of Rome. I whisper a prayer to Juno to grant me peace whilst he is home and then I call for Sulla and Ameilia to bathe the poor trembling girl who has been given a fate worse than mine, even if mine does include a lecherous and barbaric husband.

* * *

Lysander can read and write. I learn this at supper this evening; a grand feast held to honour the Emperor's return to Rome. He was a scribe in the house of the household of a wealthy landowner in the northern regions of Greece who had been found by Claudius to be exhorting extra taxes from his people and not passing them along to the central governing council. Claudius had had him executed and his property seized. Household members were sold before leaving Greece, with the exception of Lysander who had been put to work documenting the assets of his former owner.

He is not Greek by race, I learn. I had noted his lighter skin and bright blue eyes and asked of it lightly to Claudius. My husband had asked the same thing, and told me that the answer was the reason he had deemed him worthy to keep for himself. Lysander's mother had been a Briton, seized during a raid over Hadrian's wall and brought back by her Roman captor to his new posting in Greece. It is unknown who his father was, but the possibility of him being a Roman is not spoken in our triclinium. Claudius does not need to explain to me that Lysander's paternity does not matter within our laws. To be born to a slave is to remain a slave. The poor boy knows nothing else.

I call him a boy although he appears close to my age, perhaps older. Yet, I left my childhood behind during the previous harvesting period when I left my father's household for that of Claudius'. It is unfair, I suppose, to think that my life has made me older than him; that I consider anyone who has not experienced my pain to still be a naive child. Perhaps it is because I know Lysander and those like him will never be men in the sense of Rome's laws. He forever will be ruled by others.

Claudius is asking me about my new slave, the young Hellenic girl he brought back across the ocean. She has not spoken more than five words thus far into the day, but my husband feels the need to divulge her past to us over our meal. As he talks and gestures, a dribble of olive oil spilling down his chin, Claudius' story of slaughtering a merchant for refusing to lower his price of meat for the Emperor's army makes my stomach roll. I know my husband's reputation, and yet I do not wish to see our guests grin and smirk like leopards in regards to his exploits. It is too easy to put myself in the place of the girl who bore the brunt of her master's foolishness. Claudius fails to notice I have stopped eating. He no longer feels the need to ensure I am listening, but I cannot help it as he talks of her terror and attempt to flee. How he hunted her down, killed the family of peasants who tried to help her, and then bound her to a saddle where she remained until they reached Italy and unknown territory.

Her name is Martha, which sounded foreign on my tongue when I first tried it. I had Cassandra translate for me and noticed the look of panic on her face and demanded her explanation. Usually the woman is foolish and superstitious about names and physical characteristics. I had thought it was because of Martha's red hair, but no, it is much more disconcerting than that. The girl bears a Christian name, although she adamantly swears she is not one of them. I do not know if I believe her, but she has been warned about Claudius if he learns the truth.

He will crucify her just to send a message to the priests encroaching on Rome. To the priest, Valentinius, who labours in prison still despite it being almost a year since his arrest. For Claudius both hates and fears the growing sect of Christians, the followers of Jesus, who is said to be the son of one divine God who not only rules the heavens, but is the only God of all. It is blasphemous and it insults those gods and goddesses who bless and protect Rome, yet their numbers have grown in the last two centuries. I once asked one of the senators to explain their philosophies to me, and while he was sceptical, he explained that Jesus had been executed by Pontius Pilate and that his followers believed that his death absolved mankind of our inherent sin. I am sure there is more to it, but those that follow believe that Jesus rose from the dead after three days of lying dead in a tomb. It all sounds glorious, but I see no difference between these miracles and those fantastical stories told to us of our own gods. Claudius says that he worries the Christian priests will convert Romans and as a result, our gods will forsake us; I think it has more to do with Claudius knowing that with enough numbers, the Christians have the ability to create an uprising against injustices done to them. My husband is wise enough to know that people defending Rome is a more predictable strategy than sacrificing goats to Jupiter.

It is getting late, and I struggle between wanting our guests to go so I can retire and wanting them to stay actively conversing so that Claudius will attend his own room tonight and fall asleep drunk before remembering where I am. I do not welcome my husband into my bed by choice. He is a cold lover who gained my hand by raping me by the pool in my father's atrium and then demanding my hand in marriage by threat of shame. My father, while he had no choice but to retain honour by allowing the request, was nonetheless thrilled by my husband. Even with tears coursing down my cheeks and begging him to remember the contract with Lucius Octavian Maximus, the son of Claudius' general, my father congratulated me on seducing the new emperor. I loved Lucius. I hated Claudius. Now I fear him. Lucius has been posted to Britian where he is with the garrison along Hadrian's wall. His sister, Aemilia Julia has still visited me during Claudius' absence. Her family foolishly thinks I have the emperor's goodwill and can leverage them once more into his tight circle of confidents.

I have excused myself from the guests, the men too deep in their cups for my presence to be appropriate anymore. Usually I would scoff, but tonight, I welcome the custom that lets me be alone. Claudius has merely waved me away. In my rooms, Martha follows Cassandra's directions on how to ready me for bed. I remain stiff backed as they help me undo the clasps of my robe and slip on a sheer silk robe for bed. Martha pulls the pins from my hair and I run my fingers through it as it unravels down my back. I catch Martha's still figure in the mirror and she blushes when I do not smile at her. She is younger than I, although I doubt she is a maid. I cast my eyes downwards when I remember Claudius' tale.

"Mistress, you cry." Cassandra sounds surprised, which could be true. I do not cry often. Tears are a sign of weakness and in the house of the Emperor, one cannot be weak. "Did she pull your hair?"

"No, she did not," I reply, swiping a finger under my eye. I had not realized I was crying. "It is the Kohl. It burns."

"I shall fetch some water and oil from the baths," Cassandra tells me, hurrying from the room as Martha continues her even strokes with the brush on my hair.

There is silence for some time and I find myself lost in thought. I think of Lysander and Martha, and how they have seen the world and yet most likely wished they had not. When I was younger, my father took me and my brother to Egypt. In Alexandria, we toured the tombs and sailed the Nile while father negotiated prices on items that were crucial to our family's wealth. My childhood seems as far away as Egypt is, and yet, in Claudius' house, I am constantly reminded of what I do not know or understand. Martha stops brushing my hair and places the brush on the table.

"You miss her," she says in her heavily accented Latin, "the woman that the Emperor mentioned this morning."

"Niobe," I whisper, my tongue slow to answer. "Yes. I suppose I do."

"She meant something to you. I saw it when you learned she was gone." Martha has pulled the covers from the bed and draped them in even pleats at the end of the bed. She is pouring water into a pewter goblet to set beside the bed for the night, just within my reach. She is observant, I realize, which will keep her safe in this house from most.

"She was a gift from my father for my marriage. She knew me as a girl and was there the night that the Emperor requested my hand. She taught me how to be a good wife." I rise from the stool by the dressing table and take the bracelets from my arms.

"He should have told you. That was not right." I turn to shush Martha, her words barely audible and yet still dangerous. "The Emperor is a harsh man."

"He is the Emperor. He is firm. The people respect him for that," I tell her.

"Do you, Mistress?" she asks.

"I do," I answer, and it is true. I respect what Claudius has done in Rome. He is a true soldier and understands the balances in ruling.

"But in other things, you wish he was different." I hear the sound of sandals on the tile floor and know Cassandra is returning.

"Everyone wishes for a love like that of the Trojan princes. It does not make them obtainable." Martha knows my answer to be the end of the conversation, but in those few moments of talk, she has come to understand how I stand in the house of the Emperor.

* * *

**Februarius**

The sound of breaking pottery and cracking wood reaches me in the baths. I stand, startled, and the slaves rush forward to wrap me in linens. Martha laces my sandals and then follows me through the arches to find Claudius in a rage. He has destroyed most of the decorated vases and the only thing left unscathed is the statue of Mars in the corner of the room that serves as his planning space away from the forum and the senate. His cloak looks dishevelled.

He turned at my footsteps and now he watches me. I do not speak although I have a thousand questions. Lysander is bent over a desk, his stylus in one hand. He too looks wary although I assume he knows the cause of this disruption. I think to choose my words wisely but Claudius speaks first. His anger is such that he needs someone to direct it at.

"He sought to convert me! The emperor of Rome, the city founded by the gods, and he thought to convert me, Petronia!" I nod my thanks to Martha who covers my shoulders in something more presentable than my bath linens. "I went to him out of respect! And he behaves such!"

"Valentinius, husband? The priest in prison?" I ask but I already know the answer. Claudius has spoken before of his high regard for the priest's tenacity and loyalty. For his strength of character and courage to defy the orders of the Emperor.

"Yes! I shall have the traitor executed!" Claudius slams his fist down. I jump and take a step back. He may not recall, but I do, that he did the same thing the night Valentinus was arrested.

Claudius had been newly made emperor, but with his past as a general with the army, he knew how to fix the waning spirit of the soldiers and the high number of requests for release. Men who were married wished to be at home and not campaigning. Men in love wanted to hurry back to wed their lovers. My husband made marriage illegal without dispensation from himself. He reviewed every case. To marry without license was punishable by death. The Christian priests were made aware as well, however they were known to be against the ruling. There had been rumours for months before Valentinius had been caught marrying couples secretly, and Claudius had him arrested just days before marrying me. Those early days as husband and wife had been full of anger and frustration on both parts. In the end, Claudius left for Greece. He told the people he sought peace and security, but I knew that he sought to regain control and respect. The people have learned to mask their fear and make it appear as reverence. Anything to keep Rome safe. To keep their families safe.

"Before the festival, he shall die." Claudius has made up his mind and there is no point in saying anything. The priest will die and it will send a message to everyone. No one will defy the law, and Christianity will not thrive in Rome. "Lysander, make sure it is known. Three days before Lupercalia. I will not bring the gods down upon us by killing him during a time of fertility, but I can cleanse the city of his ill before we ask their blessings. He will learn that Rome will not welcome his kind."

Lysander nods, his eyes not meeting his master's, but catching mine for a moment. I feel something, a tingle in my spine, and am shocked. His eyes are so blue, they seem to capture and hold light. I look away and meet Claudius' gaze full on. I hurry to drop my gaze to his sandals. He has seen however and I catch a breeze against my chilled skin before his hand connects with my cheek. The slap cracks the air and my head snaps to the side. My breath leaves me for a moment before I suck it back in and hold it until the tears no longer threaten to fall. I never look up.

"The next time you choose to appear before me, do so whilst looking appropriate. No wife of the emperor shall flirt with those in my house." He brushes past me, his cape sweeping at his feet.

My hands are shaking. I had been concentrating on the tears before and had not noticed. There is noise from the corner of the room where Lysander has pretended not to notice. Like my own attendants who wait for my signal to approach. The stinging has abated and I lift a heavy hand to my cheek. It is hot, but it does not feel like it will bruise. Claudius is lucky that way, not that there would be any backlash for his actions. I am his to do with as he pleases; it just looks better if the people think we are happy.

It is Martha who touches my arm. Her fingers are warm and the shift in temperature brings me back from my thoughts. I run push my hair away from my face and my eyes slide along the tile floor to the desk and the figure behind it. Lysander is pretending to read. Funny how I know he is pretending. As if he hears my thoughts, he looks up and I see guilt in his eyes. He feels responsible. He should. His eyes could be a weapon against some. But I also see pity and that shakes the stone wall I have just now rebuilt. A slave should never pity a free woman. Yet, he does. I wonder why.

I turn and walk back to the baths. My attendants will have to start the process all over again. I will light a candle to Juno on my way back to my rooms that if Claudius comes to me tonight, he will have forgotten this morning. My body is gaining too many bruises after so many months of freedom. False freedom, but it was mine nonetheless.

* * *

There are flower petals scattered in the corners of the forum on the day Valentinius dies. They are in preparation of Parentalia which begins tomorrow, more will be tossed from the hands of Roman citizens during the three days of Lupercalia that looms to celebrate and honour the rituals that cleanse and purify the city. Ironic that the petals appear wilted and dirty. Far from an offering to our ancestors. The privileged part of me wants to mention it to Claudius and have those hired to clean the place whipped for failing in their duty, but the rest of me says enough people will suffer today.

Along with Valentinius, who Claudius plans to execute publicly in the forum square, three other priests and two deserting soldiers have been already crucified along the road leading to and from Rome. There have been many visitors to the villa since Claudius' announcement seven days ago, most coming to beg for the life of the priests. Yet the emperor's anger and need for retaliation is insatiable. His mood has lingered through the villa. The slaves run to keep out of his way. I have come to dread the night.

On the platform below me, Valentinius has been led to the scaffold. His hands are bound behind his back and the guards have stripped him to the waist. I try to remain impassive as my eyes roam over the battering his body has taken. I wonder how many of them are from my husband's own fist. I can see the people swarming around the base of the altar that Claudius has had built. He is planning to call this execution a sacrifice for Rome. By killing Valentinius, he will preserve the sanctity of our gods. I marvel at my husband's ability to manipulate his own desires into the will of the gods and the will of the people. It makes me wonder how much of the Christian's beliefs stand stronger than those of Romans.

My body stills at the rustle of robes behind me and the sweet scent of honey that floats on the air. The seat beside me in the stands of the forum is empty. Claudius will not enter until called. Our attendants and guards are arranged in the seats surrounding me. They whisper quietly to themselves, thinking their voices are drowned out by the din of the chanting crowd below calling for blood and calling for life. The air around me vibrates as he leans forward slightly, just enough that only I can hear but no one will notice the exchange.

"The figures in purple, across the arena from us. Who are they?" He has been eating pomegranates. I can smell it on his breath, and his voice is musical with the accent of both Briton and Greek. I hold my breath, timing my answer for when the orator steps onto the scaffold.

"The Vestral Virgins keep the hearth burning so that Rome is safe. They are here as a reminder." I wait for Claudius' wrath to descend, for him to somehow be near and have heard me answer Lysander. I listen for others to take notice, to point to me and call me a seductress. When it does not happen, my heart slows its drum like rhythm.

In his seat, I hear Lysander settle, readjusting his position. He will not ask another question today, but maybe someday, and I begin to wonder what it may be. I arrange my robes and as the crowd cheers and welcomes Claudius to his place beside me, I begin to imagine the stories and myths and traditions I could teach to Lysander. While the crowd below raises their voices in a frenzied rhythm, I wonder what it would be like to have someone to talk to, who knew the outside world. It reminds me that I do not have a child of my own yet.

Valentinius dies elegantly. Not a flinch or a hesitation in his step, or a trace of fear on his face. I have heard that Christians believe in a heaven, or a place after death where peace reigns. I see how my husband can admire the man so, even if he does follow a heathen religion. His blood is staining the white of his robes, those left on him and those discarded to the side. It is the same color as the petals left in the corners. Red and white, the contrast startling to witness. To the side of the platform, a group of people are weeping. Christians, I presume, and I wish I could tell them to flee the city before the mob descends upon them and tears them apart.

"I leave for Gaul in six days, Petronia," Claudius announces beside me and I am glad that my thoughts have made me slow to process his words. It allows me to remain facing the arena, when I say nothing, he continues. "I do not know when we will return. Pullo has been informed and knows his duties as head of the household guard."

"Thank you, Claudius," I reply softly. Demurely. I do not mention sarcastically how belittling it is that the head slave of the house knows more about my husband than I do. "I am sure he will do his job well again this time."

"I am also leaving you Lysander." I almost choke at this announcement but pass it off as the dust. I accept a cup of wine from one of the boys attending our box. Claudius politely waits.

"Lysander? I thought he was to be your personal scribe?" My heart is racing and I do not know why. I am keenly aware that Lysander most likely already knows Claudius' plans and has known all morning. My bangles jingle softly as I pretend to polish the ring on my finger.

"He is, but he will remain in Rome to act as correspondent between myself and the senate." As an afterthought, he adds, "And between myself and you, of course."

"Of course," I respond with a smile that does not reach my eyes.

"We will have to host a party on the eve of my departure," Claudius is saying, and I nod, already compiling a list of guests like a good wife with a high profile husband. "And I need to contract Severus Justinius again."

I nod as he stands, and watch him stride out of the stands and into the labyrinth of forum beneath us. I am trying not to smile at the idea of my husband's departure. The visions of nights alone in the atrium with Lysander reading to me begin to take root. Martha brushing my hair for hours undisturbed in the baths. Quiet meals with Aemilia Julia where we discuss poetry and art and her family's wine vineyards to the south. I stand when it is appropriate and wait for the remainder of our servants to prepare to leave. I lift my robe to keep from tripping and turn to see if they are following.

Lysander's eyes burn into mine and I again wonder what question he will ask the next time.

* * *

I had forgotten the trade given to Severus Justinius by the gods and why Claudius paid for his craft. He is an artist. I have seen his work and it is beautiful, but I had forgotten where it is frequently displayed. The man is a tattooist and he has come to mark Claudius' newest additions. He has come to mark Lysander, my beautiful boy, with the insignia of the Emperor of Rome. I will never again be able to gaze upon him and marvel at his perfection. Claudius seeks to brand him, disfigure him, claim him. A part of me feels guilty for not considering Martha's pain in this as well.

The girl looked positively terrified as Cassandra led her to the stool next to a table that held Justinius' tools. She was unconscious after the first moments and she was left there on the floor while he finished. I sent Cassandra to look after her, but I have stayed to watch them steal my Lysander. How has he become mine? The emerging lines of ink on his neck spoke otherwise, but in my heart he is mine. He looks at me like the tales of the gods told me lovers were supposed to look at one another. No matter if we had never touched, if a psychic could read my mind, I would be guilty of the deadliest sin by now.

Lysander never flinches after the first needle was put to his skin. He takes the pain like a stone, or a soldier. My heart feels all of it though. Each prick is through my chest, and each drop of blood may as well have been a haemorrhage. He will forever be a boy now, never a man in a house of his own. Never free. Never mine.

When my fear for being discovered becomes overwhelming, I flee to the inner chambers of the villa.

* * *

**Martius**

Claudius is gone from Rome. I watched the horses leave the courtyard myself before dispatching the household back to their duties. I ordered Lysander and Martha to stay and asked for wine and figs to be brought to the atrium. It is there, that the messenger finds me to say that the Emperor met his legions outside the gates of the city and has crossed the river. I cannot contain a smile as I politely send him away. I will have the spring and summer to myself.

"Lysander?" I ask, and he looks up from his scrolls of poetry. I rarely call him by name.

"Yes, Petronia?" he keeps his eyes low. Behind me, Martha refills my cup with wine.

"Tell me a story." I am feeling light and airy, not from wine but from the lifting of heaviness that always occurs when Claudius leaves the city. "I want a Greek story."

"A story, my lady? A translated one?" he seems sceptical of my request. Perhaps he thinks I mock his un-Roman roots and looks. I do not. I simply long for something exotic.

"No, one in Greek. I speak Greek enough to follow and a story always loses its essence when translated from its original tongue. Tell me, Lysander, of your favourite story." I smile at him lazily, one finger creating spirals with my curls as I wrap them around and around into tangles.

He opens his mouth and tells me of Troy. I laugh at the irony at first and he grins over my cleverness. It is said that Rome was founded by one of the roaming princes of Troy. Which makes us Greek. He is reminding me, but also he finds the humour in his own assumptions. He was surprised I speak Greek fluently. Many of my position would not have been warranted an education. What should a girl do with such schooling? My father felt differently. He felt that with an education, I could ease my husband's burdens. I could raise sons who knew the ways of the world. I would understand the tongues and cultures of my servants and slaves. All I use it for now is the last one. I have no husband who deems my opinion worthy and I have no sons. Not even after Claudius' time home recently.

I close my eyes and listen to the lull of Lysander's voice and the buzz of the bees in the gardens. The pool bubbles in the shade and Martha has disappeared into the villa to find more cheese and fruit. Behind my eyes, my mind conjures up images of Helen of Troy and Paris on the walls of the city, the grounds below them a battlefield of Greeks. I always wondered how selfish she had to be to cause an entire city's downfall. Then I ask myself what would it be like to love someone enough to not care? Lysander's voice quiets and I open my eyes, the sun piercing them.

"Yes?" I ask, aware there was a question.

"I said you were smiling, Petronia, and Hector has just died." Lysander is watching me with a knowing look, but he knows not to grin. A slave does not grin at his master's wife. I look away. And then in a moment of boldness, I look back.

"Why did you choose, Troy? Of all the Greek stories, you chose the one that lead to the founding of Rome. Why?" I lay back against the curving arch of the chaise and watch as Lysander seeks his answer. He does this, I have noticed, think through what comes to him. I guess as a slave, it saves lives to think before speaking.

"My mother used to tell me that she felt akin to Cassandra the Seer's pain. Ripped from her home and dragged to another, unwanted and rejected by the lady of the house." He pauses, watching to see if I admonish him for speaking so frankly. I don't. I am curious. "She was a Seer in Briton, among her people. In Greece she would use it sometimes, to calm birthing mothers or scared children. She died when she caught fever and foretold my master's death."

"I've heard it said that Troy was both the birthplace of true love and the birthplace of true pain. Do you think that's true?" I ask softly, leaning forward until his face was only inches from mine. On the floor in front of me, he has very little place to go.

"I think the analogy fits, Petronia, but I'd like to think that true love and true pain existed before Troy. They still exist after." His eyes do not move from the ground, but in his hands he is caressing the petals of a crocus, one of the early blooming types. The dye is staining his hands.

"Do you think-," I pause for a moment, my heart singing and my blood pounding. I see shadows inside the villa but they are out of earshot. "-Do you think it is still possible? To love someone as painfully as Helen and Paris without the will of the gods?"

"I do, Petronia," he tells me, placing the flower on the stone wall by my hand without ever actually giving it to me. He is clever, Lysander, he knows the stakes. "And I don't think the gods need to tell us who to love in order for us to love someone."

"I wanted love," I tell him, plucking a new crocus from the soil. "I think I had it once, had I been allowed to marry Lucius. Had Claudius not been heroic on the battlefield and entitled with Gothicus. Perhaps love is only for those with something to lose. I have nothing."

"We all have something, Atella, even if it's just each other." I examine his face and again remind myself that he is not a boy; that his words speak to knowledge and pain and growth beyond that which I could hope or wish to know. I see the black ink still fresh.

"Not even Martha calls me Petronia," I whisper, "when those who matter are not listening."

"And what does Martha call you?" I barely notice his mouth moving.

"Atella." I hold my breath.

"And what may I call you?" He has picked up the flower again.

"Gabriella."

"I am not Roman, my lady, I have only one name to offer you." He smiles then, with his back to the arches.

"No, you are wrong," I tell him, "You offered me Troy, true love and true pain. Will you answer to it for me?"

"As you wish, my lady." He sees my raised eyebrow. "Gabriella."

I stand then, using his shoulder as a crutch to rise and arrange my skirts. From inside, I appear to be the same as any lady of the house. I know differently. Leaving the atrium, I look back over my shoulder. The sun enters through the roof and lights up the auburn strands of Lysander's –Troy's, I think to myself with a secret smile on my lips—hair. He has picked up the crocus I had picked and left on the lounge. I turn and enter the shadows and cool depths of the villa.

I shiver and pass it off as the change from the dipping sun.


	3. Part III

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.

_AN: So the next few weeks are going to be a deluge of updates. I have spent the past few months going through files and tying up loose ends—or attempting to. I highly recommend re-reading Parts I and II. I have made some slight (barely noticeable) edits, and it has been two years since an update. The Ides of Sextilis roughly translates to August 13 on the old Roman calendar, which was celebrated as the day of the Festival of Diana on the Aventine, or Nemoralia , and you will find it only fitting to post this today since I missed Valentine's Day. This is one of the final three parts of Esto, including the Epilogue, and you will not have to wait two years for another update. It took way more work than I thought and then I put it off for last Valentine's Day and promptly forgot about it. For information on new stories, please read my profile and you will find where I am hiding other goodies for you. _

_~Van_

**Esto Perpetua**

_**("Let it be forever")**_

_**PART III: 269 AD, Iulius**_

Claudius is away for months. News of his battles is brought to Rome from the heart of Gaul where he is taming the barbarians. The senate employs scribes to transcribe the best morsels of news to be nailed at crossings and public buildings for the population of Rome to read. Orators stand in the marketplace and the square to boast of how Rome is conquering the world. They do not know everything.

Perhaps the men in the senate tell their wives; their eldest sons. It is certain that the slaves and those who work with them overhear things. Important things. Yet the average Roman does not know of the cost of Claudius' greed and cruelty. Knowing and suspecting are different, however, and the couriers' arrivals at the city gates allow for suspicions and speculation. If the courier arrives by day, on a fresh horse, he bears good news. A tired or spent horse arriving at dark means trouble and the need for more soldiers, more generals, more men. A courier arriving under the cover of darkness, skulking along roads towards the homes of city officials means defeat. The capitol cannot know of defeat.

Troy reads me the news each morning while I break my fast. Claudius' scribe always encloses a note or a letter with the courier. Usually it contains orders for Pullo and the household guard. Always it contains assurances that my husband is alive and bravely converting Rome's enemies. There is nothing beautiful about the letters. Nothing that makes them sing on the page or causes me to close my eyes and envision where the army is. I do not listen to Troy's lilting voice and pray for Claudius' safe return.

On the mornings where there is no letter, Troy leaves the villa for the market square. He takes Pullo with him and together they listen to the crowds. Knowing and suspecting are different and with suspicions come rumors; rumors that are whispered to fellow citizens. When they return, they bring the city with them. I can at least know what the common person knows. There is more to it than being informed. The mood of the crowd can be unpredictable and it is unsafe for the wife of the emperor to venture outside the villa into a hornets' nest.

This morning, he is gone longer than usual. I have risen, dressed and had my hair arranged by Martha, and am now seated in the atrium with a bowl of fresh plums that were delivered this morning from the fields outside the city. Cheese and bread are sliced on the wooden board brought from the kitchen but I have not touched them. The water in my goblet has been freshened with mint. I sip at it so as to have something for my hands to do. I could not eat if I tried. Troy's absence is like a fist holding my heart.

Thinking of Troy brings a smile to my lips. It usually does. Cassandra has made mention of it when it is just I and those allowed in my quarters, although she does not know what I think of when it lights my lips. She says I look happy. It is pointless to deny it. The entire household is aware that I am happier when my husband is far from Rome. Still, I must keep guard of my emotions. Alone, it is easy to forget, and perhaps safer. In public, no one must see how my eyes slip to Troy. He must remain far enough away that the hair on my arms does not rise.

He has not touched me. Not even so much as a brush of fingertips as he passes me Claudius' letters once he has finished. He does not need to. One sweep of his gaze and his sapphire eyes pierce my soul. When he speaks, I can close my eyes and pretend that he speaks to me of Briton and his Celtic ancestors, of Greece and the sea—the place I call him after. It has been a whole season since he has been Lysander in my dreams. I have claimed what I can of him just as he has claimed my heart.

I have learned to listen since Lupercalia. It is a lesson Troy's stories have taught me; to listen to more than the words and the narrative. I listen now to the people, to the choice of words, to what he chooses to speak and that which he leaves unsaid. The pitch of his voice, the hitch in his throat, the pauses that substitute looking. Those afternoons in the gardens when I lounge on the chaise and he recalls the great Greek myths in his native tongue as he sits on the warm stones with his knees bent and a flower in his hands—those moments I listen as he tells me he loves me.

It is foolish, I remind myself as I hear footsteps at the kitchen door and the sound of Pullo's heavy boots on the stones, to lose oneself in such childish dreams. I watch as Troy enters the atrium, ducking slightly around hanging potted plants and trailing vines in the archway. For a moment he pauses in the shadows, and I resist the urge to pick up the hand fan left for me as the sun rises overhead. He is dangerous, I tell myself as Pullo enters mere moments behind him. They are dusty from the streets and mud coats their sandals. I use this to cover the pounding of my heart.

"I suppose your news is urgent," I acknowledge, curling my lip slightly in distaste as I eye them up and down, "If you felt it necessary to appear looking like that." My contempt hides my fear as snakes curl in my belly for the shadows have followed Troy into the sun. They cling to him as he steadily watches my face. I look to Pullo, another curt remark on my tongue.

"Mistress, there is news in the market." Pullo is nervous. Surely, not of my reaction? No, it is something else. He is nervous of the tidings. "It is only rumours, still, but if you should receive a messenger from Octavia Julia-."

"No." I shake my head. My hands are still as stone in my lap. The snakes are readying to strike. "No."

"The rider from the Emperor arrived this morning. He tells the guards at the gate that as he left the Roman camp, another rider was entering. He carried the flag of Aelian, Mistress." Pullo paused, as though he was uncertain I could follow the details of the news. I could. I followed and hoped with the remaining portions of my heart that I had kept from Troy that each word from Pullo would dispel the thunderous crack that loomed. "He came from the wall, Mistress."

"No." If I repeated it, in the shade of Juno and Venus's shrines, it could not be true. "He cannot. It is forbidden to reveal those tidings to anyone before the Emperor."

"Law or not, Mistress, the news from the wall is that Lucius Octavian Maximus is dead." For all his resistance in repeating this news, he delivers the killing blow with precision and chilling steadiness. "Among more than fifty legionaires and allied barbarians."

I cannot see. The world around me has faded to grey and all that exists is death. Pullo tells me of the other fallen as if he thinks they are the ones that matter. They do not. No one matters for the moment. Lucius is dead. Claudius has won. That was his goal, after all. To reward bravery and courage with leadership, and to reward love and honour with a post that separated us and all that our betrothal threatened when the Emperor married me. To honour love with death. My stone facade threatens to crack but it cannot be. Not here. Not with him.

"Leave." It is an order. I rarely give orders so slaked with disdain and poison. Pullo is startled, I see and a curl of cruel pleasure wraps itself around my heart. "Now."

"Mistress—," Pullo catches himself. His spine straightens to appear intimidating? Respectful? I do not care.

"Go. Find someone more creditable than loose mouthed messengers and gossiping guardsmen. This is not a squirmish by a nameless river in Gaul with a few dead peasant boys. This is a general of Rome whose father sits in the Senate. I will not deal in rumors when it comes to Octavian Maximus." _Lucius_, my mind whispers. He was never Octavian to me.

"Yes. Lysander and I will—." Again, Pullo reverts to the respective, cold tone of household guardsman. It makes me want to have him whipped.

"No." I am becoming reckless. My thoughts urging for impulsive actions. "I require his services. There is time for me to write the Emperor and ask for him to put truth to this news. He may have already done so, but he should be told that it is circulating. Perhaps his response will be better worded to reassure the public."

Pullo does not insult my intelligence by telling me it is a good idea, although I see a wave of grudging appreciation ripple across his face. He bows and leaves. His footsteps echo across the stone of the atrium and through the villa. I have not moved from my place. My eyes have not left the shadows to my right where the shrines to goddesses of love, protection, home and faithfulness rest in their secluded niches. They have failed. In every aspect they have failed me as a woman. Without moving, I feel Troy watching.

"Is he gone?" I murmur, the words barely forming.

"Yes." I detect something in his voice. Assurance? Sympathy? Not pity. Perhaps encouragement? He does not know.

"Who will hear us?" Again, I wait for him.

"No one. They will see." He knows, I think. Not of my heart, but of my anger. My disappointment. My frustration. He knows Claudius has taken something else.

"I need you to kneel." I pause, hearing the rustle of cloth as he obeys. I glance behind me, not looking directly at him, but enough that he sees my face. "They cannot know. Not all of them are loyal. He will ask of my reaction. It will be sweeter than knowing his death. He cares not that Lucius is dead, only that I know I caused it."

"I am here." His voice is barely louder than the wind. It drifts and lilts and I remember that Pullo said Briton clansmen are dead as well. Does Troy have an arrow lodged in his heart too? My vision catches him bowing his head. "Gabriella, he only wins when you no longer care."

I slap him. I raise my hand again, but this time it is the silver goblet that my hand contacts. The water splatters the tiles like blood. The droplets bleed into the dust. The plate I grab next is more satisfying as it smashes on the marble. The pieces shatter, the glazed pottery glinting in the sun. I watch as a wasp lands in the juices of the plums, its wings sticking as it tries to satisfy its gluttonous desire for the sweetness. It crunches under my sandal as I channel everything into imagining a spear slide into Claudius in the same swift movement. No flash of surprise; no thought for hope. Final.

My bangles rattle as I pick up my skirts to miss the mess and the merry sound of their music lights a fuse that had only been sparking beneath the surface. I look at them, seeing gifts from Claudius. Each one a reminder. I pull them off and throw them. Four from one wrist, three from the other. Gems and links explode against the wall of the villa. The cuff on my upper arm is more difficult and it does not dent or bend like the bangles. It is no longer touching me though, and as each piece of jewellery comes off, I feel a piece of my heart throb.

When I am left with nothing but my shifts and _stolla_, my sandals and the pins in my hair, I stop to breathe. Sweat glistens on my bare arms as I reach my hand out. Blood pounds in my veins and Troy's words pound in my head. I had lost Lucius long ago, but never the memory of his love. I yearned to feel that again. To know what it was like to be guarded and worshipped because of who I was rather than what I brought with me that could be counted and weighed. To feel if for only a moment.

The sun is overhead, casting Troy's face in the whitest light and darkest shadows at the same time. My desire makes us equals. The risks do not favor one over the other. There will be no safety. There is no means to sacrifice for him. I do not wish to continue without love. A moment is worth more than years if those years are empty. With my back to the villa, my face to Troy, I stand over his kneeling body. He watches my feet, follows the sound my steps.

"Do you understand that this marks you?" I ask, jabbing a finger at the healed brand on his neck. The movement is harsh and he tilts his head so I can see it fully. My actions are harsher than my words, but the actions are what can be told to my husband. "That this makes you his?"

"Yes." His voice is ragged.

"We share a master, you and I," I say. I remove my hand from his neck and run my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He is surprised, until I grasp it at the roots and yank it back so he is forced to look up at me. His jaw is rock hard, not a muscle twitches. He meets my stare straight on and I see the lights in his eyes that mark his soul. "His rule is absolute and he metes out punishment that is second to none."

"I understand." His voice does not waver. I take strength from it.

"I loved once." I wonder what he hears in my voice. "I thought it would be forever."

"Love is forever." His words remind me of the priest, Valentinus, and I wonder if Claudius hated more than his faith. "Even if life is not."

"Paris died at Troy," I remind him, remembering that morning in this garden. "And Helen spent her years wishing to throw herself from the walls of her prison. Aphrodite did not save them."

"I am a slave, Gabriella. Dying young and in love is what poems are made of. Dying an old man who was too cowardly to live seems empty." His eyes look feverish and again I am reminded that their blue is foreign. "I don't compare myself to princes."

The air in the atrium is heavy. It presses on my chest and catches my breath. I am reminded of where I am and who is watching. I look over my shoulder and harden my features. It will not do to risk everything for nothing. There are shadows in the doorway and without looking back, I rip my fingers from Troy's hair. He collapses back to the tiles, his head bowed.

"Marcus!" I yell, impatience in my voice. "I need a rider to the house of Aemilia Julia!"

"Mistress?" He lurks in the corners. I had thought correct.

"I want the truth. I will have none of these rumours and gossip of the fall of Roman generals and Roman lands." I spin on my heel to eye Troy. "And Lysander better hope his sources are credible or I will not save him from her father's wrath."

Marcus bows and scurries off. I do not watch. His orders have bought me only minutes. Walking purposely back to Troy, I pause.

"Stand." He obeys and I let the air hang between us. His cheek bears my handprint. His hand has already marked my heart. "Know this. Lucius loved me and was sent to the wall. I stayed and married Claudius like a proper Roman daughter. I obeyed and smiled and did my duty. I will not do it again. Unlike Helen, I will not spend years too afraid to follow her love into Elysium."

I leave him in the garden. Chastised, humbled, scolded and disciplined, he is safe from watching eyes. That afternoon he is respectful, silent, and dutiful. He remains out of my way, he relays messages and requests orders through other members of the household. He is a slave in every way. Marcus and Claudia regard me with a mix of fear and respect. They know something has changed.

That night, a white poppy was left on my dressing table.

* * *

**Sextilis**

The Ides of Sextilis brought the festival of Diana. The summer had been filled with hot mornings and scorching afternoons. News from the markets said that the fields were dry and that water had to be hauled thrice as often as possible. Disease spread in the lower slums of the city where it festered too quickly for sludge to be cleared from the city. There were nights where sleep was impossible and I would instead lay in the atrium's terrace and watch the stars. When the sun was highest, the entire city hid and slept.

I woke early on the morning of Nemoralia. As was custom, Diana's festival was a day off for slaves, and I was bathed and dressed before sunrise. In the dining hall I handed out the token coin to each member of our household. The guard would remain, the arrangements for payment and days off in the future already in order. With the household slaves at the markets or the Colosseum for the gladiator events, the villa was not acceptable for visitors. I had made that perfectly clear to the guards at the door. They were to turn away anyone.

I was to spend the day in prayer. With my hair veiled and my feet bare, I crossed the terrace alone to enter the alcove where the shrine to Juno waited. In one hand I balanced the shallow chalice filled with ox blood, and in the other I carry wine. Only the silk of my robes whisper as kneel before the bronze statue set upon the altar. Placing my offerings at Juno's feet, I bow my head and rest my hands on my knees.

As goddess of women and the home, Juno is also supposed to be the protector and the guide. She is known to be the one who understands devotion and loyalty and the love that comes from that. She is not patient with adulterers and she does not take kindly to deception, but I need her. I need her to understand that my marriage to Claudius is not a marriage built on trust and loyalty. I am not defiling it. I believe it was defiled when the priests bound us. To the shadows and Juno, I beg her to remember when I came to her about Lucius. When I told her I wanted nothing but to be his wife and a good one. To give him sons and daughters he would be proud of. I implore the goddess to remember that I wed my soul to Lucius and that Lucius is gone. I am free.

The air is still. No answer comes although I am unsure what I expected. Flames? A whoosh of wind? A voice in the dark? Only silence folds around me. I could have gone to Venus, I think, but she represents rash passion and raw desire. She is the flame that ignites upon the oil and just as quickly burns itself out. Minerva would offer wisdom, but she is also jealous and quickly angered. I am wise enough to know the tales of the fall of Troy. When the goddesses asked Paris to choose the most beautiful, he chose Venus who offered him the most beautiful woman in the world. Some say Troy fell because of love, but I say Troy fell because of jealousy. I am no different.

Perhaps it is not a sign. Not everything is an omen sent by the gods. Coincidence happens, but when I shift to stand and feel his presence, I dare to think it is Juno's answer. I do not know how he does it. How the room shifts to make room for him. My skin flushes and my heart beats. It feels like spring after winter, sun after rain, life after death. I remain still, waiting for him. All this time it has been I who goes to him.

His fingers are warm when they graze my neck, sweeping my hair over one shoulder and then trailing along my shoulder. Breathing has been forgotten. The sparks that he leaves on my skin sink in and travel to my belly where they smoulder. His hand smoothes across my cheek, cups my chin; he rubs his thumb over my lips. He smells of almond oil and vervain. My lips part and my tongue tastes the ashes of incense.

"This day is a gift from the goddess, she will not take kindly to—" He holds a finger to my lips and smiles. It is startling. Troy has never smiled for me before. He has never touched me before. Since Claudius brought him to me it has been nothing but looks, glances and murmured words. This, here, now, is—

"I am using her gift," Troy murmurs in my ear. "I have been to the temple, and now I am here."

His hands slide down my arms, iron grip wrapped around my elbows. In his embrace I rise in one fluid motion. My hands discover his chest, his shoulders, his upper arms. Wool itches my fingers as they glide over his tunic. He is taller than I had thought. Broader. Stronger. Everything about him is enhanced in this space where we are equals. He is not in deference to me but I am in awe of him.

My hands cup his face, both thumbs drawing outlines of his jaw as I look into his eyes. The blue of Aegean, the crystals of my bracelet. They pierce my soul and grip my heart. Troy catches my hands in his, trapping them against his face. I can feel the gentle thump of his pulse beneath my fingers. We are so close we share the air between us.

"You are so beautiful." I believe it when he says it. I have heard it all my life, but from Troy, it is different. He means more than my face. More than what he can touch, what he can see.

"I will not be able to wait another year to touch you," I tell him, my eyes sweeping his face.

"We'll get another moment," he tells me, his voice laced with something I've never heard from anyone. I nod, not trusting words.

He leaves first, head bowed, steps small. Outside these walls, the man I know doesn't exist. Only the slave everyone else calls Lysander.

* * *

**Germanicus**

A fortnight has passed, and with it the full moon. In a few weeks the heat will go, and the fields will ripen with wheat and barley. The orchards will be scented with the fragrance of late and the men will sacrifice to Jupiter in preparation of the Autumn festivals. For now, the sun is barely bearable. It heats the flagstones of the streets to the point that it is uncomfortable to even walk in sandals. Children run in the alleys, browned by the sun and hair lightened to the color of wheat. My silks and wools are too heavy, they drag and cling. Only the lightest of linen and the sheerest oflace allow me to feel as though the heat is not suffocating market is loud and dusty. The sun filters through the finely woven walls and roof of my covered pallet as slaves carry me through the crowds at the market.

The noise is barely muffled, the yells of children and the calls of vendors reaching my ears without trouble. Martha and Troy are among the people,bartering and buying purchases for the household and myself. Small packages already occupy space beside me. Small packets of saffron and cinnamon, pepper and sweet smelling oils for the bath and sticks of kohl.

And a is gold, and plain. The only pattern is a simple sketch of waves engraved into the metal. I don't remember owning anything so plebeian. I discovered it hidden in the folds of another package. It is meant as gift, given in the only way our secret allows. When asked, I will tell them that it was on the list for Troy and Martha. Martha does not read. She will never know the lie. If she does, she will not speak of it. It will do her no good. Ignorance is not evidence against culpability. The girl may be uneducated, illiterate and a slave, but she is not stupid. One learns fast how to serve those who protect her.

Turning the bracelet in my hand, it catches the light of the filtered sun. The refracting light shifts against the curtains and I marvel at how something so basic can be so beautiful. Although the heat is stifling, it has settled around me and driven out the chill of the villa. Of the shrine. Of the crypts. Beads of sweat cling to my neck beneath the heavy coif of my hair. When I settle the bracelet on my wrist, it too is hot and heavy. A reminder.

There is a shout outside the curtains and the swaying motion of the pallet stalls, pausing in the streets. I hear the sound of horse beats and sandals, but I cannot see beyond the sheers. I must settle for the voices as Pullo's voice rings out in greetings to the approaching parties. The returned welcome is not recognized by me although my guard at arms announces the name of the other party with fondness. I arrange my skirts and smooth my veil. Custom dictates he must inform me of who is greeting us. If it was a private greeting amongst friends of the lower classes there would be no loud formalities. A tilt of the head. A gesture of a hand.

There is the sound of sandals hitting the ground and the rustle of leather and wool as a shadow is cast along the outside of the curtains. I bow my head, my hands in my lap. I have been trained to execute womanly etiquette even when my silhouette is the only thing being scrutinized. As a child the first lesson I learned was that there is no such thing as privacy. To never make that assumption. The gods are always watching, and if you are lucky, there are the only ones. In the market, privacy is not gained by riding in a covered pallet. Modesty is found, but not privacy.

"My mistress," Pullo announces, quietly but formally from outside. He will stand beside the pallet, not facing it. His head bowed as though we are face to face. "Her ladyship, Julia Octavia sends greetings and asks if she would not accompany you for the remainder of your time in the market."

I smile. Aemilia Julia Octavia has been closeted with her children and her brother's children since the news of his death arrived at the gates of Rome. Her father returned quickly to the senate after the funeral rights, but Julia remained at their villa in mourning. Although I would willingly ease her pain and the gossip by joining her in her pallet, it is not proper. I rank higher. As well, her exchanging transportation in such a public place will make a statement. Mourning for Lucius is over. Rome must focus on victory once again. Not that they haven't been anyway, but it has been discrete. No longer.

"Of course she is welcome," I reply. "I will need someone to bring us refreshment. Lysander should have coin. I want fresh from the vendors. Do not send someone back to the villa."

"Shall I fetch Martha to serve you, my lady?" Pullo asks as murmurs grow in the crowd.

I can picture Julia as if I was watching the spectacle myself. As a married woman, Julia adhered to the custom of modesty. As a beautiful woman who spent her young years being wooed by powerful men, she was known to push the edges of modesty to satisfy her personal vanity. I envied her confidence. Unlike myself, Julia pushed her father into agreeing that she have a say in her marriage. Although Marcus Brutus Aquila was far from a love match, Julia would argue that he was better suited match than others. For those vying for her hand, it was like watching Aphrodite at work. One glimpse of Julia's blonde hair and men would fall to their knees. Even now I can hear the murmurs of the crowd as they watch her step down from her pallet and walk the handful of steps to my own. She could have stepped between the pallets, but then where would be the spectacle? No doubt she has ensured that her kohl is perfect; that a tendril or a glimpse of braided hair is visible as it catches the sun and shines like gold. Her mother was the princess of a kingdom to the north, where light hair is common enough. Or so I am told. In Rome, Julia is a rare treasure.

"No, Pullo. I will serve her myself."

She is a burst of sun as she parts the curtains and enters my small haven. Perfume reaches my nose and the scent of orange blossoms mingles with my preferred jasmine. I have seen her only once since the news of Lucius. It was a bitter visit. The guilt made me speechless. This time is different. She is different. As she settles herself amongst the cushions I catch a glimpse of something out of place but hauntingly familiar.

"How are you," she asks, her eyes searching mine. I smile.

"Well." So much in one word. Her eyes narrow. It is quick, but the smile flashes brightly and she runs a hand over a violet pillow. Fingers tangle the tassels. "I enjoy the peace of summer. The senate is less demanding. The visitors more pleasant," I tease.

"You have not left for the summer villa?" Julia asks quietly and I frown at her tone. "There is talk that it is odd for you to remain in the city this late in the season."

"News is delayed in the countryside. I did not wish to be the last to know if things changed." I know what she is thinking. It never mattered before. That was before.

Before Lucius, I was naive and young and the news of men did not affect me. Those I loved were not at war. Before Claudius, it was Lucius, and I would happily be the last to know if something had happened. If it was bad, I would have had extra days not knowing. If it was good, he would ride out to find me himself. Before Troy I escaped Claudius and his shadow by being in the country. Now the country does not offer protection or hiding. From the city, yes, but from my staff it would be suffocating.

"Of course you would wish to be the first to know of your husband's victories," she spoke carefully, "Or of his return."

"His return will take much preparation when the time comes," I reply, eyeing her directly; the question in my gaze. The hauntingly familiar aura about her is recognizable at last. Julia is keeping secrets, and talking in riddles. "Being in the city will allow for a proper warning. It will not do for him to return to an empty house."

The walls of our haven are not made of wood and stone. Our words are not heard by only us. We are aware of this, which is why they are carefully chosen and spoken. Speaking in public is safer than private. In private people assume that secrets are told and plans made. In public, people can forget what they hear. My conversation with Julia has not yet crossed a line into suspicion but there is enough that I can be seen glancing to the front of the pallet where I know Pullo guides the slaves.

"How is your husband? It must be nice to have him home and to have received such distinctions at the front." There is no malice in my tone, but perhaps a hint of a reprimand.

"He is mending, Petronia. He will never ride the same again, but his duties with the senate are needed and will help with the glory of Rome. He brings knowledge of the Frankish and Saxonic tribes that make war along our borders." She pauses, swallows and keeps her voice even. "He brings news of the Emperor."

The Emperor. Not my husband, not Claudius. Not _from_ Claudius but _of _Claudius. It is not news meant for me. Perhaps it is not meant for anyone. I nod for her to continue, my stomach bubbling with anticipation and my thumb unconsciously rubbing along the smooth surface of my new bracelet. The sounds of the marketplace are suddenly louder than they seemed before. The shouts of the vendors, the march of sandals, the clank of coins being exchanged. All of it meant to drown out Julia's news.

"The army falls back." It is like a blow to my gut. Air leaves my lips but does not return. "They have pushed as far as they can without fresh legions. Claudius is overseeing the building of Roman forts along the new border and then he will return. The Emperor feels that a victorious return to Rome will aid with the recruitment of new soldiers."

"He is coming, then?" I think of Troy. He is my concern. Whatever happens, Troy must be protected.

"Soon." A pause as I nod. "You must be prepared." Another nod. I am lost. Drowning. Thank the gods that no one can see my reaction. Running enters my mind, but is quickly doused. Run to where? To who? The wife and slave of the Emperor will be safe nowhere in the civilized world. "Petronia, it will be a short return. He plans to conquer everything between here and the Wall. Conquer and _hold it_. This is merely a reprisal from a stalemate."

"For the winter, I suppose," I murmur. "The fall harvest will feed those he brings with him." To Julia I am planning my husband's return. Even if she knows how much I prefer for him to be leagues and leagues away, she cannot know why. "Does the senate know? Of course they know," I answer my own question. "I will have to begin securing wine from the country estates. Perhaps I should have gone afterall." I laugh but it is bitter and ironic.

"Petronia, my lady?"

"No, I am fine. Just startled by the news." I look up when Julia does not respond and see the confused look on her face. I realize that she was not the one to call me. I look towards the curtains and see the blackened shadow of Troy waiting beside the pallet. Sucking in a breath to steady my voice, I set my hands in my lap and gaze into my palms. "Lysander, I have a guest."

"Yes, my lady. I have brought wine from the Egyptian vendors, and honeyed almonds from Persia. Do you wish for Pullo to stop or would you like to remain travelling in the direction of my lady, Octavia's, villa?" Troy stands rod straight outside as we pause, his voice even and perfectly toned as he asks.

"Tell him to continue," I reply. "We will serve ourselves." A jar and cups are passed through the curtains, followed by a platter and small sack of almonds. Troy's slightly rough palm briefly smoothes against the inside of my forearm as the exchange is made. I wonder if he sees the glint of gold on my wrist.

When he steps away, I settle back and unstopper the wine for Julia and I. Looking up to hand her a cup, I find her staring at me, her face guarded. I urge my heart to settle as it pound in my chest. My cheeks feel hot. The hair curling at my neck clings with sweat. As she reaches for her cup, her eyes drop to the slight shake of my hand. Barely there, barely noticeable, but present. I reach for the hand fan that has lay beside me all afternoon.

"Your slave has good taste in vendors," Julia says, carefully selecting an almond.

"Lysander is the Emperor's personal scribe in the household." I sip carefully, my eyes downcast. "Attention to detail was one of the skills that attracted the Emperor."

There is a call up ahead and I realize that we are entering the courtyard of Julia's villa. She resettles her veil and drains her cup, setting it aside. She spins a bangle and opens her mouth to speak. The air is thick among us and as slaves enter the terrace, her words become more important and thoughtful. I dread to think of what she may say. I long for her advice, but I dread her intuition.

"If you require aid in procuring sufficient quantities of wine that will please the Emperor, my family's vineyards will be happy to obey." Julia moves to exit our private cocoon. She hesitates, pausing. "Perhaps it would please you more for your staff to inspect and select the caskets themselves. If you choose not to visit the country vineyards this season, send someone capable and my husband will ensure you receive only the best."

"Thank you, Octavia," I reply quietly, graciously. One lady to another. One socialite to another. One wife to another. "I will see that it is done. Your house should share the honors that will go those who help welcome the Emperor home."

"Petronia," she says just before stepping onto the flagstone. "Perhaps Lysander would be a good choice to send with the quartermaster. My husband does not take our scribe with us to the estate."

"I will see that someone capable accompanies the wagons." She looks worried as someone helps her down. Her hands gripping tighter when she realizes it is Troy. Against all etiquette, she looks him straight in the eye before ducking her head and calling to her attendants. I see as Troy's eyes discretely follow her until they land on Martha and he beckons her to gather the refreshments from me as if that was his intention all along.

I settle back to think as we continue on our way home, but as Martha closes the curtains to shut me from view once again, I catch a flicker of something in Pullo's gaze as he calls to the slaves bearing my pallet to hurry up. He may be calling to the slaves who strain beneath the weight, but he is watching me.

Julia's carefully worded warning was not careful enough.

* * *

**Domitanus**

It is evening, weeks after Juilia's news of the Emperor's decision to return to Rome. I am reclined on a chaise in the quiet room where Troy writes to Claudius. It has been hours since the messenger arrived with news for me. In that time Troy has left the room several times to complete other tasks. Other household members have come and gone, replenishing undrunken wine and exchanged the cheese and bread for fresher morsels. Martha has brought me a shawl and Cassandra has brushed my hair.

Still I hold the two letters brought from the Roman camp a thousand leagues away.

The first is open. The seal broken. The penmanship familiar and belonging to a camp scribe. I have read his words a thousand times this day. Since dawn broke and I was awakened by the sound of horse hooves on the stone terrace, I have held this letter. It is brisk. To the point. Not flowered with the required flattery or forced affection that Claudius' letters usually hold. It is blunt and most likely orated by one of his generals or personal slaves.

The Emperor is ill. The entire camp is ill, I am to understand, but Claudius has been displaying the symptoms of those who do not make it through the fever. It has only been days since he fell ill that the letter was written but it has taken weeks for it to reach my hand. My husband could be dead. As I live, breathe and hope, Claudius could be ash in the sky.

Yet I hold a second letter. This one is unopened. A second messenger was sent only days after the first and was able to catch up. They were delivered this morning together. One a warning. One a confirmation. But as the second letter could confirm my freedom, it could also seal my doom. If he has recovered, Claudius will surely be returning to Rome. My fingers caress the seal on the back. It has taken hours to muster up the courage to save or break my heart.

The air shifts as he appears at the door. Watching me, he leans against the stone arches in the shadows. I do not pay him attention. In my hands could very well be his life. For an instance, as he moves without sound to barely shift position, I wonder if his stealth could be useful. Perhaps he could succeed where so many others have failed. Just one perfectly positioned swish of a knife whilst Claudius sleeps—But I stop the fantasy from blossoming.

"If he's dead—" The words hang in the air, whispering louder than I spoke them.

Troy does not give me an answer.

With trembling fingers, I break the seal and squeeze my eyes as I open the parchment. A proper Roman would call for the scribe to read the words aloud. But these words are not meant for anyone but me. I will not ask Troy to read them. The penmanship is the same. The tone the same. Unemotional. Simple. Blunt. As if the writer knows that it is not a joyous occasion.

_The Emperor lives. The illness has abated. The gods have granted him their grace and spared him the black river. _

I clutch the letter and cry. Back bent, shoulders hunched, cheeks wet. I cry for myself and for the one who will come after me. I cry for Julia and Lucius. I cry for the wives and mothers whose men will not return from war.

Claudius' taste for blood has pleased the gods more.

* * *

I send Troy to the countryside. He has orders to return with the caskets of wine that my father, brothers and numerous other high ranking estate owners have pulled from their own stores. The variety of flavours will enhance the courses of the meal being planned for Claudius' return in the coming weeks. I have a month. Two, if the weather is against the army.

The wine is a cover up. I could have sent any of the head staff. They all know not to run. No one would help a runaway slave of the emperor. To let them in through the threshold would be fatal. I need space. I need distance. Troy on errands will do that. Without him in the villa, my nerves can be taken for a number of things.

Pullo has been watching. He thinks he is subtle. He is, but he is not invisible. I see the guards that lurk in the gardens, eyes downcast as I visit the niches and shrines. He does not knock before entering Troy's space, looking surprised when I am there despite the open doorways and the fact that we purposely summon servants back and forth. He accompanies Troy to deliver messages. He escorts Martha and Cassandra to the market. Pullo is suspicious, but of what I do not know. A part of me knows it is not of me and Troy, but another part of me says that makes him more dangerous.

My brother, Julius, believes I am too lax with my household. He told me so last week when he brought news from the senate that the army was returning. I knew that already, but Julius was the official messenger. The senate cannot be the last to know. Julius took note of how Pullo hovered in doorways, conversed with slaves within hearing distance. Julius was surprised to learn I was not blind to his presence. Then why allow it to continue, he questioned. I may not be Claudius, but I am his wife. I can command him to leave. I smiled, bittersweetly pleased that my brother shares some of my father's philosophy on noble-bred girls. The look on my face must have been enough because he sighed and looked guilty.

A prisoner in my own home is what I am. Julius is right though, I have been lax. I have been distracted. I have risen my guard in some aspects and lowered it in others. I have been the harshest with Troy, for the sake of the ever present audience. But the others I have spared in an effort to gain loyalty. I have forgotten my earliest of lessons. Loyalty is gained by respect. And in Rome, respect is earned by fear.

That is why Martha stands before me now. The girl stands straight, her hands folded in front of her, her head bent. The high sun of noon sweeps the floor through the open arches leading to the terrace. Pullo stands beyond the door, within calling distance but leaving us privacy. For once, he is where he should be. I wonder for a moment if Martha knows why she is here. Or if she has a million thoughts of what may happen dancing through her mind.

"You will kneel." My voice is ice. Rage coating every syllable. She obeys and I notice that her clasped hands have paled. "You don't wait for me to tell you that."

She nods.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" I ask, incredulity poisoning the question. "Did you really think that you could hide from anyone in this household? Nothing is yours. Not your life, not your love, not your secrets. You own nothing. You seek nothing. I clothe you. I feed you. I house you. That is all you require. All the gods require of you."

Not a muscle twitches in her. I see the tears though. I smile, cruel but curious.

"Who is he?"

She freezes. Not even breathing, she closes her eyes. Perhaps she thought I knew something else. Perhaps she thought this was about how she uses my coin to purchase a dozen plus one sweet pastries at the market and eats one on her way home. Perhaps she thinks this is about the prayers she makes to Aphrodite in the shrine to keep her safe from Claudius' lingering fingers when he returns. Maybe she thought I had learned of the times she left the villa in the middle of the night. I do know all of those things. I have heard the whispers, or noticed the changes. The prayers I heard for myself.

But she did not expect me to know about him.

"You will tell me." When she hesitates, I reach out and grasp her chin with my hand. Tilting her head back I meet her gaze with understanding. I know what it is like to want. It is not enough though. Letting go I backhand her. She cries with surprise.

"Now."

"Jasson." It is barely a whisper.

"Of which house?" The tears run freely down her cheeks and she knows. I continue, not pausing to think of what I do. "Name his master."

"Justinius Severus Adronicus." Her forehead meets the ground at my feet. "Please, my lady. Please."

"He is Christian." All her pieces fall. No secrets. Nothing is hers. Does she not realize that I of all people know this? That a mere slave could not have hoped to hide her heart. It took me less than two days to find out who her lover was. A Christian in the house of one of the most powerful merchants in Rome. "Does his master know?"

There is no answer. She will not condemn him to a cross. She will, but not with her words. I don't need them and she knows this. I kneel down to her, her head raising to plead with me wordlessly. I hope my expression contains all that she needs to know. I will not save her. I will not save Jasson. The only person I am willing to save is Troy and to do that, I must forget what I remember when she cries.

"He does now." I drop the notice on her like a spear thrown from a chariot. It pierces her chest and keeps going as she collapses to the ceramic tiles in the reception room. "I will not harbour heathen religions in this house, Martha." For a moment there is hope. "Are you a Christian?"

"No, my lady." Self preservation. It's all she has ever known. I cannot fault her for it.

"Then stay away from them." She does not move as I do, taking measure steps out of the room with my stolla draped over my arm. "Jasson sealed his fate the moment he told you, you foolish girl. Remember that."

When Troy returns to Rome, he is angry to learn of Martha's suicide. We had found her with a shard of pottery in her limp fingers and blood staining the waters of the baths. Unbeknownst to Troy, he had passed the crucified body of Jasson on the road before the gates. He does not speak to me for a week. He speaks to the wife of the Emperor, but not to me. My feet receive his one syllable answers. I do not fault him for it. I hate myself too. But I love him more.

Since Martha, the villa is silent. The servants avoid me and the shrines are empty. Perhaps they think I am in there praying for forgiveness. Forgiveness would be a waste of time. Time is what I do not have.

* * *

**Romanus**

On the day that Rome hears of Claudius Gothicus' return, there is a riot.

It begins in the lower slums of the city where soldier's wives begin tossing their lovers out of their absent husbands' beds. They will return if the husband does not. When one man goes mad and slays the adulterous wife of his neighbor, blood begins flowing towards the market. Brawls break out around the market as whispers of a poor harvest reach the ears of the poor. The army has been eating its way home. Slave traders continue the bloodshed as they auction off the scrappiest leftovers of their slaves. The army will bring more with them. At the height of the month of the fall harvest, the season of plentiful bounty, Rome is only reaping death.

When members of the senate, or their families, are spotted by the mob, the swell of the madness races to its peak. Children are trampled, women raped, men butchered. The senate sends out guards. Not trained soldiers; the Roman army is not allowed within the city gates. Men enter and leave the city as civilians. Those kept at the senate as a guard are officially not soldiers. Mostly ex-soldiers, they are more brutal with the law than men led by a general. They cut and carve their way towards the writhing mass of bodies in the marketplace. Blood stains their footsteps as they cut down anyone not running away or already dead.

They only serve to feed the bloodlust. Men and boys meet them face to face, rusted weapons and handhewn clubs in their hands. Women toss sewage and pottery on the heads of men pounding on doors at street level. Children cower in corners, too afraid to try to reach home or terrified of what they have already found there. The noble born shut their windows, bar their doors and send their slaves out for news.

Meanwhile, Claudius' army makes its way towards the river banks across from the gates of Rome. They will camp on the Field of Mars overnight until first light of morning. Only then will Claudius hand out the coin each man is owed and release him from duty. Claudius will enter the city last, his men announcing his approach. The city gates will swing open, his chariot will blaze in the sunlight. Olive leaves will grace his forehead and rose petals will fall from open windows. Drums will beat and the crowds will applaud. But first, Rome must beat the people into submission.

I am at my father's house when they find us.

I have been planning the Emperor's welcome feast with my father and the men of the senate. He has offered up his cook for the night, along with half the household guard that would be accompanying him anyway. He had personally selected wine from the Petronian vineyards to the north, and my brother's have sent lambs and a head of oxen. The morning has been quiet and pleasant. My father openly discussing politics and the harvest with me, us slipping back into the old ways when I was a maiden child at home and my mother recently passed.

"Your presence is refreshing, Gabriella," he says to me over watered down wine and dates. "I forget what it is like to have female laughter in the house."

"You could still marry, Papa," I remind him. "Plenty of women would agree to a union."

"Ah, Gabriella," he says fondly, brushing back a curl that has escaped my golden combs. "You seek happiness for others and yet I know how your heart breaks." I look up quickly, surprised. "It breaks my heart that you do not have children of your own. It would fill that empty house."

"My house is full, Papa. Claudius has sons. Strong ones that make us proud." I cast my gaze downwards. "The gods have willed my pleasure to be in my husband's conquests."

"The gods cannot make you happy, Gabriella Petronia." His voice is solemn. Sad, perhaps? "They cannot will us to do anything."

The pounding at the door and the rush of feet end the conversation. Pullo, who had been waiting in the servants quarters with my father's men and my guards rushes in, Troy and Marcus dusty and bedraggled behind him. I gasp with the sight of them. Marcus has a smudge across one cheek and his knuckles are ripped and bloody. I look to Troy who has one hand clasped around his upper arm. Blood flows sluggishly, drying in tiny rivers around his wrist.

"What is the meaning of this?" My father roars. His own household guard has clustered behind Pullo, their armour buckled in place and knives fastened at their waists. Only then do I hear the swell of rising voices and hundreds of footsteps.

"Rioting in the market, Senator. It has spread. The slums are in ruins. The temple to Mars is burning near the gates. Senator Flavian Aurelius is dead. His son with him. Fifty men are trying to enter the Colosseum to free the gladiators. Brutus Arturus' guards slew fifteen men who breached the senate. Someone tried to gain access to the Vestral Virgins' temple grounds." Caisius, my father's head guardsmen, paused for a breath. "They are headed here, Senator. They want your daughter. They chant it to the beat of drums."

"What? Why?" My father stumbles, his face pinched and I reach a hand out gracefully, calmly settling it on his hand.

"Not your daughter, Papa." I inhale and look to Pullo. "They want the Emperor's wife."

"What are you doing?" He asks as I arrange my layers of scarlet silks and linens. "You must stay. We can protect you."

"No, Papa, you can't. Not against that many. I will go to Artemis' temple. They can hide me until this dies down." I turn to Pullo. "I will need to slip away. Can you find a way to distract them? Draw them away from here?"

"Petronia, you need guards." He looks to Troy and Marcus. "They only have knives."

"Arm them," my father states, rising and towering over Pullo. "Arm them and split your force. I will give you men to aid with the distraction." He looks to me. "You know the way? Cut through the villas; the occupants will recognize you. Don't take the alleys. If you have to, head to the gates. They won't follow you across the river. Run for Claudius if you think the temple is not possible." He turns to Caisus. "Put a weapon in her hands."

Pullo looks shocked as Caisus hands me a knife in its sheathe. It has been years since I was a child and allowed to follow my brothers around the training grounds outside. I test the weight. It is not familiar, but I can hold it. I clip it to the leather girdle I wore today and thank the gods that I dressed practically. My scarlet robes are vibrant and hard to hide, but they do not drag on the ground and my sandals are sturdy instead of decorative and flimsy. I pull off the rings on my fingers and the jewels in my ears. I hand over the bangles, leaving one plain, solid gold bracelet on my wrist. Better to look like a well dressed servant or merchant's wife than a rich noble.

We take the back exit, following the winding foot paths used by slaves on errands that curve between the houses of the rich. Our party moves easily at first. I am in the middle, Marcus to my left and Troy to my right. Pullo's best men surround us. The guards of the villas in the quadrant let us through quietly, knowing who I am with a single glance. It is why I have left my head bare of a veil. It is when we reach the street that passes by the gateway to Antonio Volturus Titus' terrace that we hear the sound of the mob close by. The man leading us, calls for us to hurry. If we cross the street, we enter an area that has already been ransacked. They won't suspect us.

Except they do. Or perhaps they didn't and just got lucky, but nonetheless, a shout rings up and suddenly I cannot tell guards from barbarians. Bodies press against me so hard I cannot pull the knife. Hands pull and rocks fly. I cannot see and yet I am being pushed in one direction, my feet barely scraping the stones. I stumble to my knees and something heavy lands beside me, knocking my hand and sending the now freed knife skittering across the rough surface biting into my hands. I look and bite back a cry. Marcus' blank eyes stare up at me, a bloody mess showing where something has opened his skull like pottery.

A hand grabs my arm and tugs. I am hauled to my feet and pushed forward, stumbling again before being yanked up a second time. The hand lets go for a moment and I look over my shoulder, the sun blinding me and highlighting black silhouettes. The hand grips my wrist and pulls. I gather my robes and try to keep up as I am pulled along. When I catch up, I see Troy. He lets go and points towards the alley just ahead.

"The iron door beyond the stairs. It has a red splash of paint across the threshold. Ask for Sanctuary." I nod but his eyes are alight with something I have never seen. There is blood on his cheek. "Use those words. Sanctuary." He shoves me and turns his back, facing the people coming our way. "Run, Gabriella!"

I run.

* * *

It is a Christian house. Not just a Christian house, but the house of a Christian priest. He opens the door to my desperate knocks to the door and ushers me inside. It is dark, small and the noise from outside is muffled. My chest heaves as I catch my breath, my fingers clenching and unclenching the fabric of my skirts. I quickly scan the room for others, and my eyes settle on the small object hanging beside the door that I just sought safety through. A cross of wood. Crude and simple, but gleaming with oil. A gasp escapes me and I stumble as I back up, away from my savior. His eyes soften; understanding.

"My child, you are safe here." He guides me to a chair but I do not sit. "Wait here until they are passed. Our differences in gods is not at conflict in this moment."

"Troy," I whisper, hearing my slip but realizing that the priest will not notice. "Troy told me to ask for sanctuary. Why?"

"I do not know this Troy, but it would appear that he understands my customs. My kind believes that anyone requesting sanctuary must be granted help. I will attempt to keep that promise." He pauses. "If we are to wait this out, we should at least know names. I know of Troy's but not of yours."

I pause. Thinking. "Gabriella," I finally murmur.

"I am Marius." He offers me a smile that I do not return but that I trust. "You know, differences aside, Gabriel is a messenger in the books of my people. We believe he is an angel sent by God."

"I was sent by the mob," I counter. Uncomfortable. "I bear no message."

"Not all messages are made of words, my child." Marius is interrupted by the sound of pounding on a different door.

I hold my breath as the priest disappears down a corridor and I hear voices rising and falling. Panicked and consoling. Troy. His name streaks across my brain as he enters the room. All this time that has been mere minutes and my heart has not stopped pounding. I never thought of him as dead but the feeling of isolation and separation has been knotting my nerves and shaking my hands. I stand in the room, unable to move. His hair is a disaster, dirt smudged across his face and neck and up his arms. His tunic is ruined; ripped in places. The sword my father gave him is naked in his hand.

"Troy." It comes out with my breath. Marius keeps me from throwing my arms around him.

"Troy, welcome." Marius' voice reminds Troy of where he is. "The sword cannot stay."

"We will need it to leave," Troy tells him, eyes never leaving mine as he relinquishes it to the priest.

"You may stay as long as you like." Marius pauses. "I was about to offer Gabriella water. Perhaps it would be better if we saw to your arm first."

My eyes find the blood weaving paths down his arm, trails twining and intersecting as they pass his elbow and his wrist. There are smears on his tunic that could be his or someone else's. His eyes are tired when they meet mine. Relief is reflected in their depths as his hand reaches out to cup my cheek. I hear Marius leave the room and return. When I cast my eyes left, I see him in his white robes as he sets a bowl of water and a cloth on the single table in the room. A roll of linen bandages is placed beside it. He quietly leaves the room, returning with two pottery cups and a pitcher. This time he addresses us.

"Through the back door and across the courtyard is a well. Behind it, the grate in the ground leads to the tunnels. If you need to, take that route. Follow it uphill, it will lead to the temple." Troy breaks my gaze to look at Marius. He has covered his white robes in a brown cloak with the hood up. He carries a bucket. "Unless they are at the door, remain here. It is safer. I will return." Marius pauses at the front door. He looks over his shoulder. "Use what you can find to clean and tidy yourselves. It will draw less attention later."

Before the door closes, my hands are sliding up Troy's chest to feel his shoulders, his neck, his jaw. My eyes rake over his face, looking for more damage. His hands find my waist and suddenly the room is stifling hot as though we are in the baker's kitchens surrounded by ovens. My veil slips to the floor as he pulls out the pin gently, the silk whispering as it pools on the rough wood. A tug of the comb at the crown of my head and my hair falls in the same manner; rippling in waves down my back. Troy holds it in one hand, his eyes searching it in wonderment.

My fingers undo the knots of his belt and I lean away just for a moment to drape it over the back of a chair. My heart hammers in my chest and I wonder if this is how all lovers feel as they undress towards the inevitable. I tip my head back and while my mind is drowning in the crystal blue of the ocean, my fingers have found the tattered edge of his tunic. In one movement, it comes off. Over his head and dropped on the floor to mingle with the scarlet of the veil. My fingers trace the grooves of his chest, the valleys and mountains of his flesh. I skim over the bruises that are visible, my eyes following my fingers as they follow the curve of his shoulder to his upper arm where the blood still flows sluggishly.

"This needs tending." I am so used to whispering my words to him that my voice barely echoes in the room. "Are there others?"

"Not that I can feel." His thumb passes against my cheek again, down along my jaw.

I turn my face and reach for the cloth that Marius has left. When I turn back to Troy, he has sunk down cross legged on the floor. I pause, and then copy him. My feet tucked under my skirts, my hair pushed over one shoulder, my gaze is level with his. I reach for his arm and he offers it to me, goosebumps creating a path where my fingers touch his flesh. The water washes away the blood and dirt, the cloth soaking up evidence of battle.

"You have held a sword before." It is not a question. He accepted the sword from my father without flinching. The weight was not awkward. He had slid it out of the scabbard in one motion; something I had watched my brothers struggle to learn as children. The fact that he had made it to this haven alive when others did not means much.

"Not recently." He flinches as I move to dab at the cut to his arm. I am more careful. For a moment, I think that is all the explanation I will receive. "I lied to the Emperor about my father."

My ministering halt and I look up, surprised. I had contemplated the possibilities before, considering his education and manners. Few slaves were taught to read and write, and fewer still would be learned enough to be trained as a scribe so young. I lower my eyes back to his arm, paying attention to the clean edges and markings of a sword wound. He is lucky. There will be less likelihood of infection if it knits together cleanly. Troy takes it as a sign to continue.

"He wasn't the Roman lord in Greece that Claudius executed. I am sure that is what many of the household suspected. I was fortunate to take after my mother in coloring and features." Yes, it would be safer to be suspected as the son of the lord than one of his subordinates. "My father was the head of the household guard. My mother once told me that she foretold his fate and he sealed it by sleeping with her. He made sure I learned to handle a sword and spear. A bow too if needed."

"What was it?" I am curious. The priests and priestesses tell us of fortune telling and omens at moments of particular anxiety, but I wonder what things this witch of the Britons saw.

"That he would die knowing all of his sons, but that he would die defending them. That one of his sons would bring glory to Rome, that another would see lands touched by no other Roman, and that the third would serve the Emperor." Troy hisses as I tightly bind his now clean wound. "I am the third."

"And the others?" I move to wipe the smears from his forehead, inhaling the smell of him as I lean closer. Leather and oils, and something that smells like persimmons.

"I do not know my brothers. Or the women that bore them. I used to think that they were other children on the estate, but after Claudius slaughtered most of them, I realized I was wrong." He watches my face as I wash his face, the cloth moving down to his chest.

"And your father?"

"Died in battle against invaders from the north of Macedonia. If his sons were all in Greece, I suppose that would mean his death fulfilled my mother's prophecy. However, my mother was a firm believer that sometimes her predictions relied more on the character of a person than a predisposed fate." Troy takes the cloth from me and tips my chin with his bad hand, using his good hand to clean the dust and gore from my face. I wince when he touches the bruise left when I was knocked down.

"I do not understand." Do we not listen to the premonitions of the gifted so that we can prepare for our deaths? Or know how to move forward in our lives? Did Troy call them frauds? I wait for him to evaluate his words before speaking.

"My father was a soldier stationed in Greece with a Roman lord who owned land there. His chances of ever returning to Rome were nearly nonexistent, but the odds that battle and war would find him were high. The likelihood of my father dying in battle did not require a Seer to know." Troy set the cloth aside and looked at me, leaning to the side on his good hand. "He died defending Greece. His sons just happened to be in it. It was not as though he was the only thing standing between us and an army."

"That is rather-," I fumble for words. "Bleak." It seems inadequate but enough to express my thoughts on his logical rationing of the unknown.

"Perhaps." He shrugs one shoulder. "Look at it this way. If someone had told you when you were young that you would fall in love with someone that was not your husband, what would you have thought?"

"Fair enough," I conclude. "I would have known that it would be rare to marry someone acceptable and that I loved." I raise an eyebrow. "How do you know that I love you?"

"Have you not loved before?" he countered and I feel that flash in my heart where Lucius' name is etched. "As for me, you are risking everything and more to do this. If it is not for love, then the gods are cruel."

He kisses me. His lips are on my before I realize his intentions. For a moment, I freeze and then my mouth opens to accept him. Heat flares up my arms where his palms rest flat against my hands, pinning them to the floor. I am aware of everything at once. The calluses on his thumb and forefinger from the quills he uses to ink his letters. The way his right hand is smoother than the left. The stumble growing on his cheeks. As his hands leave mine and grip my face between them, his lips also give me a moment to breathe before they find my collarbone and my breath is lost in an escaped gasp.

"Say it," I demand, my eyes shut tightly so that my only sense is how he feels. "Tell me what I want."

"You're beautiful," he replies, out of breath. I bite my lip as his teeth graze under my jaw.

"Not that." His hands find my bent knees under my robes and he pulls my closer so that my legs wrap around him, our hips even. "Tell me."

"You're water in a desert." His hands undo my girdle and push it out of the way. "You're land to the sailor at sea for too long." My hands play with the hair at the back of his neck, my lips at his ear. "You're the target the arrow seeks." The weights that hold my robes in place at the shoulders are undone and scattered. "You're the eagle, the rose and the sunrise."

"No." My fingers dig in to his back before releasing to let him discard the fabric and textiles between us. "Something I have not heard."

Troy grips me under the arms and pulls me back, catching my gaze and holding it with a fierceness that I have never seen nor felt. His eyes, the eyes that caught my attention and usually make me think of the ocean and freedom, are so dark I think of Hades and the Styx. His mouth is a hard line. My heart stutters and my breathe catches.

"I love you." I wonder how he breathes. "I will always love you."

I kiss him. Hard and fast, my mouth opening to let him in again. My hands grip his shoulders, pulling him against me. Troy responds to match me. His hands in my hair, down my back, on my hips. His lips press the points along my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. As I lay down, my head meeting the silken robes as pillows, I smile against Troy's mouth.

"Always."

His voice is barely audible as he trails kisses along my navel and upwards. When he reaches my mouth to reconnect, I hear him clearly. His breath is ragged but his face is an open book. Awe. Apprehension. Anticipation. Desire. Wonderment. Certainty. Perhaps at some point in the past, a Seer spoke of this moment. The moment where two people doomed each other. The moment when the wife of the Emperor betrayed him. The moment when the servant of the Emperor chose rebellion in the least violent way.

"Into Elysium."

I am reminded that the blood of a Seer runs through his veins.

Perhaps it's Fate. Perhaps it's human nature. We crash towards the inevitable together.


	4. Part IV

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.

_AN: Naming conventions during the Roman Empire were complicated and evolving, following specific formulas based on hierarchy. Since the majority of the characters in this fic are of the ruling class, and yet are purely fictional, I will not go in depth into their meanings. The best way to satisfy your curiosity is to understand how the relationship between individuals indicated which name to use. For Gabriella Petronia Atella, Petronia is a form of her family name and therefore a sign of respect by the lower classes to use when addressing her. Atella indicates a nickname or a name meant to distinguish her from others in her family with the same name. I chose for Atella to indicate her father and his position. Gabriella is her first name, just as our first names exist today, with the exception that in Roman times, only those considered intimately close would use one's first name. It is why Gabriella tells Troy to use it. It is also why, although he probably would have, Claudius does not use it, to symbolize how far apart they are. _

_~Van_

**Esto Perpetua**

_**("Let it be forever")**_

_**PART IV: 269 AD, Romanus**_

I awake to the sun marking a path across the floor. For a moment the unfamiliar ceiling causes confusion. The previous day rushes back in flashes of angry faces and blood. Shifting, I shiver as the single blanket slips to expose my thigh and hip. A hand rises and replaces it, moving behind me so that the chill of the morning air is replaced by searing heat. A new set of memories flood back. Hands and lips in the dark. Silk and wool in puddles on the floor boards. Passion and desire, urges and caresses. My lips curl into a smile and I turn over to be greeted by the golden angles of Troy's upper body. His eyes are laughing as he watches me tilt my head up for nothing more than a kiss. Something so simple and yet something I have never been able to do. I have always woken alone before now.

Marius returned sometime last night to say that the mob had quieted down. Beaten by the senate guards or simply run out of wine and bitterness. The talk was that the army was waiting on the Field of Mars but Claudius would not march them through the gate. No one's safety was worth breaking the first oath of any Roman Emperor. The army was not to be inside Rome. The Emperor was waiting for word from the senate. He would enter through the gates when they sent word that the uprising was over.

I knew what would happen. Those responsible who could be found would be arrested and tossed in prison. The streets would be cleaned of the dead. Broken pottery would be swept from doorways and villas would be tidied and presentable. Women would cover their heads and hide their injuries. Men would hire tradesmen to secure their doors once again. Children would be children and run in the streets. Only then would Claudius enter the city at the head of a column of horses prettily dressed and saddled. He would wear laurels on his head and look for me on the balcony of the senate. I said none of this to Marius. We have not spoken of who I am although I saw how he watched his words when he spoke of the Emperor and how his eyes seemed guarded when he saw how Troy's hand rested easily on mine as we listened.

Marius has been gracious. He set up a pallet on the floor of his main room and found us pillows and a blanket. He insisted we remain as his guests until the night had passed. A simple meal of bread, figs and olives was offered and welcomed. The fare was simple, washed down with water from the well in the courtyard that sweet to my tongue. The Christian priest had found a spare tunic for Troy and promised to burn his ruined garment. He went to his own pallet on the upper floor at nightfall, leaving us alone.

I hear Marius' light footsteps from the other room where the kitchen is located, but also the simple altar I had noticed yesterday when I first sought refuge. Without a sound, I slip away from Troy and locate my shift in the pile of garments on the floor. Troy watches me as I adjust the overdress and clasp my girdle. I leave my sandals. I suspect my hair is a disaster, but it will have to wait for me to locate the few pins left from yesterday.

"It is barely past sunrise," Troy says softly, sitting up stiffly.

"Only someone awake since sunrise would know that," I reply, my smile reaching my eyes.

"Or someone who knows what this hour looks like." It is an ugly reminder despite the grin that graces his response. My smile falters as the footsteps come closer. Claudius is outside the gates and Troy and I are in the house of a Christian priest. I almost laugh at the irony of it all, but the desperation and cloud of sorrow that squeezes my heart is like ash in my lungs.

"We should tell Papa that we are safe. He will send men to the temples and we will not be there." I play with Troy's bracelet on my wrist. "He will think the worst."

"I have been to the markets." I had not heard Marius enter the room. I turn, eyes wide. I ponder the habits of Christian priests if he has already been to the markets and returned without my realizing. There is a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes in our surprise. "The word is that the Emperor fears for the safety of his wife. A parcel of her men made it to the gates last night to deliver news that they met with resistance at the Petronian home. The Emperor's villa has been ransacked and sits empty except for those found dead."

My stomach threatens to empty and I press a hand to my abdomen as I ponder the cost of lives at my home.

"What of the Petron villa?" Troy asks for me, standing from the pallet to dress. With nothing on, his brand is as stark as blood bleached wool. The chill returns as sweat breaks out across my shoulders. The walls of the room press in on me and suddenly Troy's arm in the only thing holding me up.

"Intact," Marius answers. His eyes dart between us and then settle on mine. "Senator Atella is also seeking his daughter. They found two of her guards dead in the street."

"We should not impose on your hospitality any longer." I pace the few steps to the doorway and back, eyebrows drawn together with thoughts that bounce and scatter in my head without focus or logic. "We cannot be found here."

"Of course, my lady." Father Marius makes to leave the room as Troy dresses. He turns back, hands clasped in front. "May I offer some insight?"

I nod, hesitantly. Behind me Troy looks up from settling his belt and waits wordlessly. Marius does not look nervous. More thoughtful as he ponders what he wishes to tell us.

"I am Roman. I was taught of the gods as a child, and I worshipped them as you do. I found my calling amongst a priesthood that recognizes the one true God. A God that overpowers all others. A God that shares no human traits with us mortals except for his Son." He draws a breath. "I do not seek to convert you. I simply wish to share what I believe my God would want you to know. Marriage is sacred. It binds two souls together for the sole purpose of children and honor and loyalty. Ideally, my God wishes to see love, but sometimes loyalty and truth are a different form of love and just as worthy."

"Father-," Marius cuts me off with a raised hand. I have never been interrupted but the way he looks at me makes me forget the slight.

"Simply understand this." A sigh escapes his lips and I wonder if he understands how helpless the entire situation is. No faith can ease that. "If you return, you will be welcomed." A pause as he lets it sink in. "Remember _sanctuary_."

My mind is still reeling as he leaves the room to fetch Troy's sword. I hear my name called and I turn to see Troy watching me. Something flickers in his eyes that I do not recognize. He crosses the distance and kisses me hard, taking my breath away. It is meant to stay with me for days, weeks, months. Until Claudius once again leaves and opportunity arises. My heart shatters to think how long it might be. When Marius returns, we are led to the door. With my veil over my hair and Troy's cloak around my shoulders, we step out onto the street stones.

It is when the doors closes behind us that I put a name to what I saw in Troy's eyes.

Hope.

* * *

I know my husband. He enters Rome six days after the riot. His horse is spotless; his chariot gleaming in the sun. His closest men march behind him. Children chase after him. Women toss petals and olive branches from the upper windows of their dwellings. It is an entry of success. Valor. Victory. The people forget of the blood staining the stones outside their homes, or their dead burning outside the walls. They only see the image of glory.

I watch from the balcony of the senate. Ladies of high ranking officials and families wait with me. Claudius offers a salute as he passes and his gaze meets mine for a fraction longer than the others. It lingers but it shifts. Something catches in my heart as I see him scour the faces of those around me. It is how he looked at me before having me. There is a burning in my belly and I feel the inkling of suspicion at the back of my mind. I do not look for Troy. He is among the crowd somewhere. Watching the festivities as a proper slave-interested and curious but unimportant and without a properly orchestrated place.

Claudius has changed. While he may not be interested in searching my soul, I search his. He has lost muscle. He is leaner, the angles of his face more prominent. His eyes are shadowed and there are lines on his face that were not there when left all those months ago. The seasons have been harsh; and the illness lingers. I note it in the way he stands in the chariot. The way he shifts his weight as though tired. Under the ruddiness of too much sun, there is a flush to his complexion. Claudius did not easily escape Hades' call to the underworld.

That night there is a feast at our villa. The broken pottery and shattered marble of the riot has been cleaned away. The blood from our murdered household staff washed from the doorstep and the rooms where they were cut down. Tables have been replaced and new linens and silks purchased. It was a vast task but one that my remaining staff undertook quietly and efficiently. Every night that follows is another feast.

I leave our guests and wander to the shrines. I voice no prayers, in my heart or with my mouth. I simply wrap myself in the quiet I have begun to miss. With Claudius home there are always guests. They come in the morning for orders, in the afternoon for favours, in the evening to discuss alliances and politics. My days are filled with planning the next party or answering another invitation. It has been less than a fortnight and yet I long for all the weeks that preceded it.

The nights are filled with Claudius. No matter the time he retires, he visits my rooms first. Before he left I had felt anxiety, fear, frustration, each time he came to me. Now I feel nothing. I allow my mind to drift as I do now in the presence of the gods. I think of nothing. I seek calm and serenity. I seek peace.

"Petronia Atella." Where I have sought solemnity, Claudius has sought me. I turn, head bent.

"Husband." My breath shows in the cool autumn air. The voices of our guests float on the wind that tastes of rain.

"Our guests will miss you. Flavia Olivia has asked if you would allow her cooks to have access to the honeyed cake recipe that was served this evening." His voice is low. Even. Controlled.

"I have already spoken to her on that account," I reply. Tedious woman but it gave me a reason to disappear into the kitchens for a few moments.

"A messenger came today. I had thought to wait and mention it to you tomorrow." I raise my head, waiting for him to continue. His voice is guarded, as though he is disciplining a soldier.

"May I ask who it was?" I think of who would call and why it would be relevant to me.

"A commoner. From the eastern side of the square." My heart stops, my stomach turns. "He says his family thanks you for your gratitude."

"Master Marius," I answer, supplying the name in a way that may save him. The man is not a fool. He would not openly announce himself to Claudius. When my husband does not answer. "He is the one who sheltered Lysander and I after the mob found us in the street. A few days ago I had the kitchen staff deliver the food leftover from the dinner with Antonius Brutus. I did thought I had mentioned it to you."

It was not a lie. I had told him. I had told him everything about how the riot reached Papa's and our attempt to reach the temple. I had explained with a trembling voice and shaking hands how we had been making our way down an alley and someone had opened their door and ushered us in before anyone saw. We had stayed until it was quiet and he had shown us the tunnels where we hid with other people until the streets were silent. Then we had found Papa who had gotten an escort to take me home. Pullo is dead as is half of the guards I had brought to Papa's that day. Perhaps that is what has made Claudius edgy. He does not know much of our new guards staff although they came highly recommended from previous noble families who gave them up.

"You did. I was surprised that they sought you out." That was it. Commoners knocking on his door made him uncomfortable. It reminded him that they considered him one of them and not an unreachable demi-god.

"Master Marius is a man of honor. He does what he thinks is right. He most likely meant nothing more than to give genuine thanks. He knows that anything sent by me is also sent by you." I shrug as though I do not understand the ways of common people. I do not, but I definitely do not understand the ways of Christian priests.

"You are friendly with this family? So much that they will seek you out?" This is dangerous ground. He does not like the idea that my whereabouts and activities are unknown to him. I cannot allow him to grow suspicious of my relationship with the family that saved me. It would ruin everything.

"No, of course not," I retort, incredulous. "However, I feel indebted to their loyalty and bravery to shelter me when no one else would. Food was the only thing I could think to show my appreciation. I have not been there since."

"Perhaps you should." His suggestion knocks the wind from my lungs and my blood roars. At the look of surprise on my face, Claudius takes it for confusion, or refusal. I do not know. "When a general orders his men into battle, he is only truly respected when those men know he will be joining them. These people may be appreciative of your actions, but they may also see them as empty. If you truly wish to show appreciation, perhaps you should deliver your next gift yourself."

Claudius is schooling me on respect and etiquette. The concept is nearly disbelievable. The dread in my belly is replaced by the bubble of laughter I am suppressing at the thought of the irony. However I take his suggestion with a look of consideration and nod my head at his wisdom.

"You are right, husband. They should know it is directly from my hand and not an empty gesture meant to cultivate a proper political advantage or image. I cannot go alone, although a legion of guards may not make us overly welcomed." I tilt my head, contemplating.

"Take the men and leave them outside. Enter with only one or two who you feel will not be intimidating to the woman of the house. Or her children." He turns to leave, but pauses. I freeze, not knowing what to expect. "Tomorrow morning, have someone find a half empty cask of wine. They will be able to tell their neighbors the benefits of helping the Emperor."

He leaves me standing in the atrium. I wait until he is gone and I hear his voice from inside. Then I smile and offer a silent prayer to whoever is listening before returning to our guests.

* * *

That first visit to Father Marius, my hands tremble the whole way. I disguise their movement by gripping the basket of fruit prepared by the kitchen staff. Four of the guards travelling with me carry an assortment of wine caskets, baskets of meats and breads and cheeses, and a small bowl of sweets. I rode on a chaise until we reached my father's villa. From there, I walked. Surrounded by armed men, I approached Marius' house with my offering.

Troy is not with us. That was the most crucial part that I insisted be maintained when I had a moment to whisper to him in an alcove of the party the previous night. Claudius' words and suggestions were unexpected and made me suspicious. It is possible that it is a dual emotion between us. So Troy stayed back while I went to give thanks to those who gave aid.

Marius answers my knock quickly. He looks surprised at the guests on his doorstep. It is a moment before he bows his head and offers a commoner's welcome to a noble. I smile, nervous and awkward. It is genuine as I fumble for a way to leave my men on the street and enter alone. Marius is quicker than I, calling into the rooms beyond the door until two young girls approach and stand beside him. I wonder at who they are, but do not ask out loud.

"Antonia, Marcella," he says, "Show the Lady to your Mama in the kitchen. And take those baskets from the men." I follow the girls through the door as Marius addresses the remaining men. "Perhaps I can show you the storehouse around back?"

In minutes, Marius is back and alone. The men wait outside he tells me. The two girls assure them of proper etiquette. As he sends the girls up the stairs, he turns to me, waiting until he is sure they are out of earshot.

"They do not know who you are, only that you come from the Emperor's house. They are not stupid though, so you must be careful." His eyes are steady as he looks me over. "They are my sister's daughters. They know to keep secrets from those who worship idols."

"I only seek to bring my thanks in person." I swallow. My throat feels tight. "And to tell you that if you ever require something of the Emperor, please send a messenger."

"Troy is not among your men." He is observant, blunt. He wonders if I am genuine, I think, and I am so far from genuine. I want to be. I long to be.

"It is dangerous," I whisper, my eyes blinking back tears. "The Emperor is a shrewd man who knows deception can lurk anywhere."

"Yet, you are here." Marius tilts his head, eyeing me with a slight smile.

"The Emperor felt that thanks should be shown to those who helped his wife and her staff." I meet his gaze, my voice strong. "He respects men of honor and loyalty."

"The Lady is too kind and expects much of a man." I know what he is alluding to. I know what I am asking. I know that his loyalty and honor belongs to a man that no one can touch. Not even the Emperor. "I am loyal to those who share the virtues of graciousness and gratitude. Perhaps that will be enough."

"Enough for what?" I ask, curious. This man speaks in riddles and code, and yet I always understand what he seeks to know, to share.

"Enough for my God to grant me peace and forgiveness for the sins I commit as a mortal. You call me loyal and honorable and yet I am not or you would not be here." He pauses, gaze shifting to the crude cross above his door. The altar hidden in the alcove under the stairs.

"Your faith has an afterlife?" I ask, thinking how little I know. "An Elysium or a Hades?"

"In a sense," he chuckles. "It is true that the most successful of faiths takes from already established ones. That is how Rome blossomed, is it not? By boys who ran from the Greeks at Troy to find a new empire built upon the legends of an older one? But no, child, my afterlife is not that of the Greeks or Romans."

I nod as I bid farewell, entering into the streets, but my thoughts are on Troy and how Marius managed to slice to the center of my being and remind me of what he has offered before. Love.

* * *

The second time I visit Marius, I do so after leaving my father's house. I go with a smaller party of men. I carry embroidered tapestries that have been the products of my women and I during the early Autumn mornings. Some have been left at the Petronia villa as gifts one gives to family. The others, a much smaller amount and of simpler design, I take to Marius. I did not tell Claudius my intentions to visit, but my brother's wife did such a good job of turning her nose up at the three panels of Elysium that had been embroidered by the least experienced in our house that it was easy to tell her that they were meant for a more humble family home.

Troy is already waiting when I enter through the front door. He is perched on a stool, his deft hands copying letters from a scroll on the table onto a less expensive parchment with far less adornments. I do not ask what it is. Marius has taken my men to the building on the opposite side of the courtyard, to the tavern to wait for me to visit with the wife and daughters they assume to be in the house. Troy looks up when I pause, watching.

"Marius is brave to do this," Troy says quietly. He tidies up the quills and ink, the sand for setting ink and the parchments he has been working on. By the time he finishes, I have relieved myself of my gifts and taken a seat on his stool. "And you are brave to come."

"Brave?" I scoff. Not brave. Selfish, reckless, impulsive. Many things but not brave. "You would not be here if not for me. It is not brave." I pause, collecting my thoughts and settling my nerves. "I have missed you. That is why I come. It has been too long."

Troy smiles. An actual smile that reaches his eyes and makes him look like a boy. I feel my cheeks heat and I lower my eyes to the floor, skimming down his body as I do so. For the first time I notice the packages in the corner, carefully wrapped and stacked in the basket from the villa. To come separately had been something we both knew. Troy had left at dawn with a basket of dispatches and messages for the senate and Claudius' generals. He also had a list of things for Claudius to purchase from the armourers at the gates. He had arrived at Marius' well before I did and he will leave well after I do. It is how we spend our time together that makes the waiting all the more bearable.

"Every day that we are not here, is one day too long," Troy replies.

Our love is quick and rushed. There is no time for languid caresses and soft touches. It is hard and bruising, desperation and the thrill of anticipation lacing every word and every nerve. Troy places bruises on top of bruises that are not from him. Another layer of deception in plain sight. When I am naked except for the bracelet, Troy pauses to trace every part of me with his hands. I memorize how it feels; the excitement, the building tension. For a few moments, the grains of sand that represent time slow so that there is only Troy and I.

It ends all too quickly. A glance at the shifting light through the shutters on the windows that says how much time has really passed. Troy helps me dress. His fingers comb through the tangles and arrange my hair under the veil. I am helping Troy with his arm cuffs when Marius enters, laughing loudly to the men awaiting me outside. He says nothing as Troy hands me a collection of flowers from the back garden. A child's gift. A message. A promise.

I leave, never casting a glance back into the shadows where Troy waits for his own exit.

* * *

_**Exsuperatorius**_

As the month of Romanus fades into the early weeks of Exsuperatorius, the end of the harvest season brings rumors to Rome. Egypt is uneasy, the Roman generals maintaining an uneasy grip on power even as the territories reject Roman influence. The barbarians to the north are once again forcing changes to territorial lines. The rumors are not new but their tone is. Rome is slipping. It cannot hold itself together much longer. Its time is done. Amongst these black foretellings, others speak of Claudius' need to return to the field. His sons and brothers cannot hold the empire alone.

Then there are the new rumors. Jerusalem is arming itself against foreigners. Judea is strengthening is power. The Christian population is growing. Those people who follow the teachings of one god are not clinging to the shadows. They do not want their Roman soldiers' gods. Claudius cannot contend with another rebellion in the East. He is sharp and quick to anger these days. His hands are heavy, he has little patience and suffers few.

I still go to Marius'. A few times I have sent a slave boy to the house with gifts to keep up the pretense of distance between the nobility and the commoners. Twice more I have met Troy there. Only once has Claudius questioned it. I told him that the commoners had a way of baking bread with less wheat but still filling. I had thought to have it taught to the cooks for the festival days that required alms giving to the poor. For a moment, I did not think he believed me. There was a shadow in his gaze as he thought, his mouth giving nothing away. In the end, he walked away.

I am in too deep now. I have lost track of when I did not know of Troy. In my mind, he is always there. Always has been. The years before he came to Rome stretch backwards in nothing but a cloudy haze of grey. I grow careless, humming as I bathe and smiling as I dress. I do not share secret gazes with Troy. I do not avoid Claudius. I am happy, though, and that is enough for others to whisper about. Perhaps my mistake was not being happy, perhaps it was to squash it down when Cassandra whispered it too loud in my hearing one day.

Only secrets are sought to be hid.

* * *

The rain hangs heavy in the air when I enter Marius' house for the fifth time since the riot. I am here under the guise of delivering bread. With the rumors of a shortage, it was the only thing I could think of. The men have gone across to the tavern without prompting. It has become a routine; I do not ponder the lack of discussion as one stands by the front door in case I call. I have never called. Troy and Marius are talking softly when I enter. I lay the loaves of bread on the table and take the proffered cup of wine.

"There is talk that the Emperor is leaving again." Marius' voice is low and holds something new. Warning? Scolding? I look into my cup. "There is also talk that he has been at the home of Titus Antonius Major. His daughter has just reached womanhood, I hear."

I say nothing. I know about Titania Antonia. I hear she has hair the color of copper coins and eyes that are black as opals. She is barely a woman and it would not surprise me if her grasping family had paid the potion witch to say she was a woman. She is very young to be sold to the Emperor given how well his reputation is known. As though he can read my mind, Troy reaches out to my hand.

"Love, she _is_ a threat." He is serious; the lines of his mouth tight.

"She is a child. If he wishes to divorce me and shove me aside, I can only hope he does it soon." Troy sighs at my words and I frown.

"I am not worried that he will put you aside," he retorts. "I am afraid that he will find a less politically messy way of doing it." I feel my eyes widen as I look first to Marius and his solemn nod, and back to Troy and the look of devastating panic in his eyes. "We are giving him an excuse, Gabriella."

I struggle to catch the breath in my lungs. My hands turn white as they grip the table. Troy is rigid and still as stone whilst he watches me. As I have said, I am in too deep. The sky had disappeared without me realizing and I was unaware that getting out would be so hard. So difficult to recognize the danger of comforts. I had grown comfortable lying and deceiving. It left me vulnerable to the truth. We were in the wrong. I was not an innocent.

"One more time," I whisper. "Just today and then we—."

"Okay," he says quietly, looking behind to Marius who nods and shifts in his stance. "Today."

We leave Marius in the kitchen and go to the rooms upstairs where his sister and her children sometimes stay. Today they are empty. Only a pallet of straw and a stack of blankets folded on the end greet us. The tapestries that were my gifts are hanging on the walls. We take our time—on the stairs, in the threshold of the doorway. This time is not like the rest. Before, it was hurried and rushed. Meant to satisfy a desire that smouldered.

Today, we take our time. It is meant to last, to be remembered. To warm us in the depths of winter as we bide our time. Troy works slowly, his fingers trailing patterns along my ribs in ways that make me want him to hurry and to slow down all at once. My hands memorize the muscles of his back, his chest, his stomach, his shoulders. I think of how he tastes of almonds and honey and smells of sand and olive oil. My mouth draws him to me, and for several moments, I do not know how I remember to breathe. It is intricate and detailed, delicate and precious. It is a lifeforce we both draw on.

That is how they find us.

Perhaps when the veil between fantasy and reality dropped for me as a reminder of where I was, it also dropped for Claudius. Maybe he always knew and had found a sick pleasure in watching me these past few weeks. None of it matters now. We hear voices first on the street and then on the stairs before they burst into the room. I do not know what they were expecting to find, but the looks of the guards' faces says they had hoped to be wrong.

A million thoughts crowd my mind as I seek to gain even ground in that moment. Troy is up in seconds, his body in front of mine as though he expects them to cut me down on the spot. He is quivering as I calmly rise behind him, the blanket wrapped around me. I see the stares of my husband's men and keep my eyes only on Troy. A hand to his arm, conveying everything I hope he knows in just one touch. No one approaches us. No one speaks. Troy turns to look at me and in that moment, my heart feels nothing but pain for what we will never have.

"You were worth it," I tell him softly. His hand comes up to brush away tears that I had not known were falling. "I hope I was."

"I already told you," he smiles sadly, tears making his eyes sparkle, "This is a death I will gladly walk to."

They let us dress, although they do not leave the room as we do so. We walk downstairs together, side by side, Troy's hand clasped in mine. Marius is in the kitchen, hands bound in front of him, head bowed. He meets my eyes as the guards stand us in front of him. They bind Troy's hands first, tightly despite that he offers them without argument or animosity. When they reach for mine, he protests.

"She is no threat to you," he argues, pulling away from the one who holds his upper arm. "She is of noble blood; you do not touch her."

"I have orders, Lysander," I will credit Tallus with maintaining civility. "She is to be brought in shackles. This is the best I can do." I see Marius' eyebrows rise at Troy's proper name. When Tallus finishes his task, I finally speak.

"What of Marius," I ask. "What crime does Claudius seek for him?"

"He is a Christian, my lady." His answer is quiet as he leads us out into the sun. "That would have been enough."

I leave it at that. Troy watches me, I can feel it, as we are marched through the market square to the cells kept behind the coliseum. Before I am taken through the door, I take one last glance behind me to the blue sky. I wonder which god will follow us into the darkness where the rats make unsatisfactory offerings. For a fleeting moment, I think of Marius' Christian God.

Today I am a traitor of all sorts, it seems.

* * *

I am judged in the senate and on the streets. Stories fly from slaves and servants, commoners and merchants, nobility and foreigners. Some say I slept with the priest, others say it was a general. There are claims that I tried to poison Claudius during his time away. I only hear pieces. They are delivered by the guards, new prisoners, and my father when he comes to see me. He most likely had to bribe his way in, but I am grateful when his face appears on the other side of the iron gates. His face is grey and drawn, his eyes sad and tired. I feel my heart stutter when I see what I have done to him.

"Papa?" I ask, breathless as I leave the corner where I have a makeshift bed. The blankets are warm and of good quality. They were a gift from Julia. How she managed to gain access, I can only attribute to her husband. I made her promise not to come again.

"Oh, Gabriella," he sighs, horror on his face. "My sweet girl. What have they done to you?"

I take one hand off the gate and touch my face. I know there is a bruise there but I have not seen it. It was Claudius' doing. He has only been to see me once and they allowed him to enter the cell with me. I do not know what he expected, but it was not my silence. Or my ability to meet him in the eye. I did not grovel or beg or plead. I held my head high until he put all his force behind his hand and backhanded me. There were words spoken, promises made, but if he thought to scare me, he failed. Everything he threw at me I had already prepared myself for the moment that I let Troy touch me. Claudius will have my life but not my apologies or regret or fear.

"It is nothing, Papa. He has every right to be angry." My voice is rough, unused. "I do not want to talk about Claudius."

"This is my fault," he says and I gasp in surprise. "No, do not deny it. I should have told him no. He wasn't the Emperor when you married; I should have said no. I thought I was helping you. I thought you would have a life of luxury and stability. You wouldn't have a husband who played political intrigues. He would go to war and you would live your life." He grips my hands in his larger ones, through the bars. "I should have listened to Lucius. He loved you and I turned him away; I let Claudius send him to the wall. You would have been happy with Lucius."

I do not deny it, but I cannot leave this world with my father thinking I lost something. I touch his cheek, feel his cropped beard. I close my eyes and for a moment, I am not in the cells of Rome, but in the atrium of my father's house surrounded by chrysanthemums, crocuses and roses. I smell basil and thyme in the air and the sun warms the stones beneath my sandals. Opening my eyes, I see him watching me. I swipe away tears.

"I would have been happy with Lucius," I admit. "But Lysander is more than being happy." I pause, settle the pulse in my veins that comes when I think of Troy. "What I feel with Lysander is the stuff of myth. It is Helen and Paris, Antony and Cleopatra, Hades and Persephone. I feel everything as though my nerves were on fire and I _know_ him, Papa, as though he were my other half made just for me. It is fantastical and illogical and in this case, it means certain death, but we made that choice."

"Gabriella, this is not a myth painted on the walls of the temple. It is real and you will die." Tears are staining his cheeks and I try to smile so that he understands that whilst I cry too, it is not regret or doubt.

"I will, Papa, but I am going to die knowing love in all its facets. Who else can say that?" I ask. "And I am going to die with Lysander beside me." I breathe deeply, filling my lungs because I can. "I would rather die now, with Lysander on my lips, than to live a hundred years and forget what it feels like."

I can see that he is struggling to understand and that is okay. I struggled too, and he may never understand. I do not need him to understand, only to accept. I need him for a little bit longer. I need someone in my corner. Tugging on his hands so that he looked up to meet my gaze, I kiss the backs of his hands.

"I need you to do something for me." He nods and I swallow hard. "I need you to see Lysander—Troy, call him Troy—and tell him that I am strong. Tell him that I will gladly die beside him, but if that is not meant to be, I will meet him in Heaven or Elysium."

"Heaven?" Papa asks me, apprehension in his voice. "Gabriella, what else have you done?"

"I need one more thing," I tell him, ignoring the question. "I need you to find Father Marius, the priest who was arrested with us, and give him anything he needs."

"The Christian?" I nod and he looks as though he may refuse, but how can he? I ask so little.

"He is a good man who sheltered me without reason when I could have easily turned him in then. His God may not be one of yours, but Marius only seeks the truth. Perhaps he is wrong about Heaven, but he is brave to seek it nonetheless." I pause and think. "I am not a Christian, but where I found nowhere to turn to, a Christian aided me. It makes one wonder." We are interrupted by the guards informing my father that his coin has been spent. He reaches for more to satisfy them but I shake my head. "Use it for Troy and Marius."

"I will be back," he promises me.

"I would like that," I tell him. "Do you know how much longer?"

"He is waiting for the new year. There is talk he plans to leave afterward for the West." He pauses. "He is to wed Titania Antonia when he returns, if the child in her womb is a son."

I nod, not trusting my voice as tears threaten. I think of children with sparkling blue eyes and the pale skin of Briton. I thank the gods that they did not bless me with children to grow up in the shadow of my choices. As he turns to leave, I call out to him one more time.

"Please do not come and watch." He does not answer.

He leaves, the shadows swallowing him up. I move back to my bed in the corner, ignoring the loaf of bread and fresh clothes he has brought. If I close my eyes, I can see Troy and sunlight.

* * *

The evening before the dawn of Ianuarius, I am seated on the small bench in my cell. I count the bricks in the wall and the planks on the floor. I trace everything with eyes that will soon be sightless. Torches flicker opposite my cell and I drink in the flames. If I could have anything right now, it would be the warmth of the sun on my face or Troy at my back. Tomorrow I will have one of them.

I relive my favourite moments in my mind, wishing I could sculpt or paint like the artists in the temples. I recall my mother's face and my brothers' laughter. I think of the kittens we brought back from Egypt and the smell of seawater in the hold of my father's ships. I list all the places I would wish to see if Troy and I had made a run for it. I feel the smoothness of silk from the east and I long to feel olive oil on my skin. I cling to the bracelet on my wrist, the one thing I manage to hide each time a guard or Claudius comes to gloat or hover outside the barred door. It is marred and bent, but is the one thing I will never give up.

Beside me is a bundle delivered by a slave of my father's house. It contains fresh robes for me to wear tomorrow. I will not appear in the square in dingy rags. I will go with my hair brushed and flowing down my back and robes made for the Emperor's wife covering my bruised skin. For now, I can simply stare at them. The sound of voices breaks my reverie. I hear the scraping of shackles and the cruel laughs of the guards.

It is Marius. His face turns towards mine as they pause outside my cell. His guards argue over keys and orders but I can only look at him. Soundlessly, I flee to the cell door, kneeling on the ground to catch his image in the glow of the torch. I wish to reach out to him but they will see. I wait, listening. The guards are moving him to a different cell. One without a window. I know now that Claudius purposefully left me in the dark these past weeks.

"Marius, forgive us. We did not think of others." I bow my head.

"Child, there was never anything to forgive." He stops when the guards yell at him to shut up. Before they continue, he tries one last time. "I am certain that tomorrow you will go where I hope to one day. And you will go there with love in your heart and forgiveness in your soul."

As they lead him down the tunnel, I remain kneeling.


	5. Part V

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.

_AN: The exact year of Valentinius' death is unknown although it is believed to be 269 or 270AD, but I chose to place it in 269 instead of 270AD simply to buy Gabriella and Troy some time, and to co-ordinate their affair with the movement of the army. It also co-ordinates with Claudius' subsequent death in early 270 and Marius' release from prison shortly thereafter. Claudius' brother, Quintillus, seceded Claudius in 270AD. He died within six months of being elected emperor. Rome continued to shrink and lose territories as the years progressed. It officially fell in 476AD when the last Roman Emperor was conquered. _

_~Van_

**Esto Perpetua**

_**("Let it be forever")**_

_**PART V: 270 AD, **_Kalendae Ianuariae

Troy's blood stains my robes. The splatter cakes my cheek and neck, my bare shoulder. The sun on my face is the only thing that keeps me cemented in reality. The rough wood beneath my feet. The swell of voices in the crowd. It all clings to me as a reminder that I am still alive. A tiny part of me is terrified that Claudius will realize that allowing me to live would be more cruel than the execution I have spent a fortnight awaiting. I had closed my eyes when I saw the light refract on the sword blade but now I open them.

And stare directly into Claudius' gaze.

I catch him off guard for he blinks. Behind me, the swordsman is readying to complete his task and whilst I do not wish to see it coming, I cannot seem to tear my eyes away from the Emperor. I wonder if he knows, or if he has formed his own conclusions. Perhaps it is not about me at all, but rather then men that stand between me and him. Lucius. Troy. It matters none to me in this moment. I choose not to hate. I choose to think of love and how it felt when Troy drew his fingers up my arm and over my belly button; the way his lips pressed against the top of my spine as I pretended to sleep on our only night.

There is a hush in the crowd and then a loud exclamation. My eyes leave Claudius and follow what those in the crowd have seen. A dove, the color of white capped ocean waves weaves it way through the invisible currents of wind above our heads. I feel warmth that is not from the sun and deep down I _know_. Its delicate wings pulse and when I close my eyes, I feel sunbleached hair woven through my fingertips and the calloused palms of a scribe.

The dove is still there when I open my eyes. I follow it until it dips and my sight falls once again on Claudius before noticing from the corner of my eye that the dove has settled on a peak of stone walls surrounding the square. Waiting. Watching. Claudius' face is unreadable but I doubt mine is. There is no need to lie or deceive. I think of what Marius said the previous night. Without thinking, I murmur the prayer I had heard him say each time we broke bread together in his kitchen. As I finish, I look to the dove, missing the signal to the swordsman.

That is how I die.

I do not live to see it, but as my blood stains the wood of the altar, a second dove joins the first.


End file.
